Murdoch on Fire
by Demosthenes23
Summary: Murdoch is determined to discover who started the worst fire Toronto has ever seen. (Loosely chronicles the actual events of The Great Fire of 1904, at least, in the beginning). *Volume XI of my alternate timeline series*
1. World on Fire

**I'm back baby! Did anyone actually miss me and my crazy stories? Only answer if that's a yes.**

* * *

"What do you think, George? Think I'll ever make detective?"

George cocked his head in his friends direction, and for a second their misty breath co-mingled.

"I don't see why not, Henry, after all, I made acting detective a few years back. If I can do it, so can you."

Henry looked at him uncertainly and the only sound was that of their feet crunching in the inch of crisp snow littering the sidewalk.

"If you say so, George."

George stopped moving so that he could face him and waved one gloved hand in agitation. "You've got to have more confidence in yourself, Henry! You are a wonderful constable! You just lack initiative!"

With eyes averted, his colleague said nothing. George sighed, took his place by his side and commenced walking again. A flurry of snow whipped past them, stinging their eyes. George brought a hand up to shield them. He glanced all around but very few people were out and about in this miserable weather, after dark. As such, their patrol had been rather uneventful. Thankfully, their shift was almost over and they would be heading home to their nice warm beds soon.

Further down the road they came to a familiar store display. One that George loathed with a passion. It was impossible for him not to say anything whenever they went by it.

George turned to face Henry who had also been looking at the darkened display with apprehension. Their eyes met.

"Please don't start-"

"How can I not, Henry!?" sulked George, pausing their forward momentum. "They stole my idea!"

Henry rolled his eyes. "For the last time, George, nobody stole your idea!"

"I beg to differ! I came up with *canned meat almost ten years ago!"

"Meat, George, meat! This is tuna! Not exactly the same thing!"

"No, but it's very close!"

"If this is bothering you so much, why don't you _do_ something about it?"

"How do you mean?" he asked, looking puzzled.

Henry rolled his eyes again and said exasperatedly. "You've got tons of money, George! Just manufacture your godforsaken canned meat already!"

George opened his mouth to retort but there was a loud bang, instantly drawing both of their attentions sideways and then up into the overcast night sky. Heavy plumes of dark smoke were curling into the clouds, making them almost disappear. Urgent shouting could be heard in the distance. The two constables shared a look and then sprinted in that general direction, skidding once or twice on icy patches beneath the thin layer of snow. As they got closer, the yells became more distinct but were still unintelligible. Smoldering smells immersed their senses and made them pick up the pace even more. Turning a corner, they were met with an unwelcome (albeit not entirely unexpected) sight.

The fire was raging something fierce and the large multi leveled warehouse (George vaguely recognized as E. & S. Currie) was completely enveloped in flames. Adjoining buildings were also beginning to ignite. Civilians had taken to tossing buckets of water on the inferno. Needless to say, it had little effect. George's avid imagination likened the effect to a drop of water hitting the sun. There were no firemen in sight and he ordered Henry to call them but an old man slumped against the call box stopped them.

"I already done that, coppers," he said with a haggard voice. "They be on their way now."

"What is your name, sir?" asked George, kneeling down to better hear him over the roar of the blaze.

"Bernie Ryan."

Placing a hand on his shoulder he said, "Do you require medical attention, Mr. Ryan?"

The man coughed loudly in response and groaned just before passing out. George checked to make sure he was still breathing and when he was satisfied, stood up and said, "Get a doctor out here and inform the precincts and the fire halls."

"All of them?"

"Yes, Henry, all of them! We're going to need all the help we can get!"

As he finished speaking, the roof of the first building collapsed inward, sending a cascade of debris towards those present below. The civilians managed to get out of the way in time, all except for one. The man was hit in the chest with a burning piece of wood. He caught fire almost instantly and the man simply lost his head and ran around like a chicken with his head cut off. George charged over there and flung him face first into the melted snow. The man's coat and shirt were burned clean through but his skin was only slightly scorched. George helped him up and then herded them all like cattle.

"Everyone back up! It's too dangerous! It's time to let the professionals handle this!"

"Well, where the hell are they?!" exclaimed one indignant lady, in a rather undignified manner.

"I'm sure they'll be here any minute now, ma'am!"

The small crowd stood back a safe distance away while George and Henry began pounding on the buildings beside the burning ones, trying to evacuate any still unaware of the current situation. Luckily this was the wholesale district and not many were at work past eight o'clock because the warehouses had already closed. By the time the first of the firemen arrived, the fire had spread half a block along Wellington and Bay and if possible, seemed to be picking up speed.

The firemen had a slightly better system than the civilians in that they had ladders and a constant supply of water in cylindrical containers strapped to their backs. The small hoses attached to these devices did not have a lot of pressure or span and in essence were not much better than buckets. Firemen with bigger hoses that connected directly to the fire hydrants, got to work shortly after these first responders were deployed. Unfortunately the water wouldn't flow from them very well because part of the pipes were frozen solid. So the men relied on an older system of dispersal, that of large barrels of water brought in via waggon, and hand pumped out of the hoses. Again, it didn't help that several of the waggons water supplies were mostly frozen when they first arrived, making it difficult to get a strong, steady stream and for the firemen to refill their packs. However, the fire quickly helped in this regard and the ice was melted due to sheer proximity.

Not long after this, his boss (and wife) and his bosses boss came into view.

"Bloody hell!" bellowed Brackenreid as he took in the full extent of the carnage. It came out at a normal level over the roar of the flames.

"Oh my God!" mirrored Dr. Murdoch.

Murdoch appeared impassive, as usual. Could nothing rattle the man? George dismissed the thought as memories of a certain child snatching event flooded his mind. A steely voice broke through his depressing ruminations.

"Crabtree!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you evacuated the area?"

He nodded and feeling very warm from all of his running around near the extreme heat, began removing his winter jacket. "Most of it, sir. Constables from the other houses have been at it for some time now."

"Has anyone been killed?" said Murdoch. He didn't raise his voice much from his usual quiet level and George strained to hear.

"Not as far as we can tell, sir, but it's too soon to say. The firemen haven't been able to get inside any of the burning buildings yet."

"Where are the wounded?" enquired Dr. Murdoch, glancing around.

Even though the glow from the fire was bright enough to combat the flurries and darkness with aplomb, there didn't appear to be any civilians anywhere in sight.

He pointed way down the street on the opposite side to a building with some lights on. "Over there." She started to move away but stopped and half turned around when he continued. "Doctor, I suggest you start with the watchman, Mr. Ryan, he was the most injured. And be prepared to move at a moments notice, there's no telling if that building will continue to be safe."

She nodded that she understood and left the men to their own devices.

George directed his attention to the detective. "Sir, is there any way to unfreeze the pipes?"

Murdoch was thoughtful for a moment. He shook his head. "Not that I know of George. The best way to deal with this problem is to avoid having the water freeze in the first place by making sure enough impurities are present. This lowers the freezing point and-"

"Enough with the goddamn lecture, professor! If you don't have anything useful to say, don't say anything at all!"

"I was merely answering-"

"I know what you were bloody well doing, Murdoch, but-"

"Sirs!" exclaimed George forcefully. "This is no time to be arguing!"

Brackenreid gave him a death glare, grunted and then went to go speak with the fire chief to get a further update. Though there wasn't much point to this, it was obvious that the fire was winning. Most of the street was ablaze and there was no end in sight.

Some time later, Giles and the mayor himself turned up. Brackenreid quickly made his way over to them as did Murdoch and George. The chief constable addressed them coldly, like he always did because he still held a grudge against his two senior officers for never coming clean about their coverup of the Ava Moon case. At least that is what Murdoch assumed was the reason.

"How could you let this happen?" asked the mayor, wide-eyed at the continuing devastation of his city.

"We didn't _let_ anything happen," said Brackenreid surly. Glaring at their political leader, "It was nice of you to finally show up!"

"I realize this is a trying time, inspector," said Giles sternly, "but mind your tongue." Brackenreid grumbled in response. The chief constable shared a look with all the men present. "I think what the mayor meant to say was how did this happen. I admit to being curious myself."

The inspector looked to George and he shrugged. "We don't know, sir."

The mayor gestured to the blaze. "This is unacceptable and can't be allowed to continue!"

"I agree, sir," countered Brackenreid, "but what exactly do you expect us to do about it? The fire chief is doing his damn best given the circumstances!"

"I won't remind you again, inspector."

"Bloody hell," muttered Brackenreid under his breath.

"Mayor Urquhart," said Murdoch formally.

The distraught, bearded man glanced at him. "Yes, detective?"

"Might a make a suggestion?"

"Go on."

"Perhaps you should get in contact with nearby jurisdictions, such as Hamilton and Buffalo. I'm sure they would be more than willing to lend a hand."

His eyes lit up. "Yes! That is exactly what I will do! Good thinking, detective!"

He rushed over to the same call box that was used to sound the original alarm, leaving the police men alone together. Giles started asking the same types of questions that Brackenreid and Murdoch already had and when he appeared to be satisfied, he moved on to the other inspectors.

Dr. Murdoch popped up at some point unbeknownst to George, for when he tore his eyes away from the blaze for a moment, there she was with her arm around the detective's waist. He wished his own wife was present as he was feeling incredibly weary all of a sudden and wanted a comforting hand for himself. However, the knowledge that his family was safe and sound, over a mile from here was enough to sustain him.

Feeling completely useless, George stood with his colleagues and watched as their beloved city burned.

* * *

***Okay it should be stated that this is not very accurate. Canned meat was around in the early 1800's. When I wrote this originally I was going off of what was said in the second episode. But I gather George's line about sending canned meat across the world was an ad-lib by Jonny and was actually meant as a jab at Spam (which came about in the 1930s). But I liked putting this joke in here so much that I said to hell with the historical accuracy. Besides, I've always considered the Murdoch world to be sort of a steam punk alternate reality, especially given the last season had 'talkies' about 25 years early. :p**


	2. Pants on Fire?

The gang stayed the whole night and into the early morning, until the inferno was finally extinguished. While it was true that they could do little to help (besides Julia tending to the occasional fireman, Murdoch fixing a few mechanical issues, the others keeping civilians a safe distance back), they found it difficult to leave. It was terrifying to watch but also oddly exhilarating. Bearing witness to such untamed elemental forces in all of their raw power was mesmerizing. They became so enthralled with the spectacle that likely none of them would have been able to sleep even if they had gone home. And there was always the remote chance that the fire could have travelled all the way to their residences, in which case, sleeping would have been a bad idea.

Their fears had been for naught for the fire had stayed within the wholesale district (for the most part). Even so, the devastation was immense. Many city blocks had been almost entirely destroyed. These included Front St, Wellington, and Bay. Little of the once proud warehouses and other buildings could be discerned amongst the rubble and debris. And still, they had no idea what had caused this calamity. The fire chief's best guesses were either an electrical failure or a heating stove had been left on. These were not satisfactory conclusions for Murdoch considering a charred body had been found under the rubble of the building just next to the E. & S. Currie. So he thoroughly examined the area himself. Unfortunately, he was unable to ascertain anything insidious, but there was still more rubble that needed to be shifted.

However, in speaking with the revived watchman later that morning, Murdoch found things beginning to get clearer (through his mental haze and general tiredness). The man had inhaled enough smoke that he had partially suffocated and as a result had been relocated to Toronto Hospital for more intensive care. He seemed to be quite pleased with all the attention he was getting. George was present taking notes for the constabulary and a very pregnant Ruby was doing the same for the gazette. Being the reporter wife of a policeman tended to have its benefits, not that Murdoch thought this had anything to do with them courting and then marrying. He was sure that they actually loved one another. It was written all over their faces. Well, possibly not today that is.

Ruby seemed to be giving her husband the cold shoulder and it was little wonder why. In an act of foolish chivalry, George had decided against contacting her about the fire, thinking he would put the baby in danger. In any case, she heard the news quickly enough and rushed down to the scene, to George's utter consternation. A loud fight ensued and Murdoch was vividly reminded of similar ones with his own wife while pregnant. There was no hope of winning when the hormones took over all rational thought. His protege should have known better since this was Ruby's second pregnancy. Even so, George had his sympathies.

"Mr. Ryan," said Ruby, "could you state for the record what happened in the place of your employment, one E. & S. Currie building, on the night of April 19th, shortly after eight o'clock?" Murdoch cleared his throat and Ruby glanced at him. "I did it again, didn't I?"

Murdoch shared a look with George, who seemed silently apologetic. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you did." Without waiting for a pointless (and likely insincere apology), he directed his attention back to the surprisingly bright eyed watchman. "If you would be so kind, sir, would you please answer Mrs. Crabtree's question?"

"Well, I was in the middle o' me first round, when I noticed somethin' strange down the way. I 'eaded over ter the elevators and before I got there, I could tell there was smoke comin' out o' them cracks! I could smell it too! Like Satan 'imself were comin' ter get me! I opened the shaft ter see 'ow far it had spread and nearly 'ad me 'ead blown off! The fire was up and down the length of it and there was no way I was gonna be able ter put it out, not all on me lonesome! So I double checked ter make sure no poor soul was still in the buildin' and then 'igh tailed it out o' there! I barely got out alive! But I made sure ter call them fire fellows straight away!"

The watchman had a strange way of speaking, almost like a mixture of both British and Irish. Needless to say, it was a bit difficult to understand him at times.

"Thank you, Mr. Ryan, that was quite...exuberant."

"It makes for one 'ell of a story, don't it?"

Murdoch raised an eyebrow. "Yes, sir, that it does. Now tell me, Mr. Ryan, do- _did_ you have an intimate knowledge of the buildings layout?"

"Why, o' course I did, detective! It's part o' me job!"

"If one were planning on planting some sort of incendiary device, that wouldn't be easily detected, where would that be?"

Ryan scratched his unshaven chin. "I dunno, I suppose in the basement level, where they store all the merchandise that ain't sellin'.

His thoughts precisely.

"Did you catch anyone wandering around this area during your shift?"

The watchman looked at him incredulously. "Don't yeh think I would've reported somethin' like that?!"

Murdoch smiled. "Please answer the question, sir."

"No, no one was down there, 'cept me. Not that I saw anyway." A brief pause. "But..."

"Yes?"

"Well, just before me shift started I saw some men comin' out o' the buildin'."

"And this was odd how?"

"I didn't recognize 'em and I have a good eye fer faces." He shrugged. "At least, that's what mama always used ter say. God bless 'er."

Murdoch was becoming faintly interested. "And could you describe these men in detail?"

"O' course I can detective!" he replied, nodding eagerly. "It'd be me 'onour to 'elp out the constabulary!"

Murdoch had the impression that he would have bowed if he hadn't been propped up in a hospital bed.

"There were four of 'em and one was an injun but he was dressed all proper like the rest of 'em. Two had big bushy blonde mustaches and the last one, I think he was their leader, he was clean shaven like the injun but with lighter hair. They saw me approachin' and ignored me and I thought that was kind o' rude but-"

Nodding curtly once, Murdoch cut him off. "Thank you very much, Mr. Ryan. I'll let you get some rest now."

He walked a few feet and stopped beside Ruby. "Did you get enough to satisfy the masses?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I did." Mrs. Crabtree flashed him a smile. "But not nearly enough to satisfy me."

Sighing internally. "Try to keep it to a minimum, won't you?"

"Cross my heart, detective."

Murdoch did his best not to roll his eyes at that.

"Come along then, George."

The acting detective attempted to give his wife a kiss but she turned her face away at the last instant and moved closer to the bed. George saw that he noticed and grumbled to himself.

They reached the carriage and stepped inside, immediately getting some relief from the chill morning air. As they passed by the smouldering ruins, where search and rescue teams (some police, some firemen and some civilians) were still underway, George interrupted the somber mood.

"How much damage do you think this was? Financially speaking?"

Murdoch was thoughtful for a moment. "I'm not sure, George, but I'd estimate in the *millions."

"Millions of dollars, sir!" he exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Boggles the mind!"

Though his wife had a large inheritance, it wasn't close to that realm of wealth. And even if she did, he would still be trying to prevent her from using it as much as possible, not wanting to spoil their children at all.

"That it does, George." Murdoch frowned slightly. "But I'm a bit surprised by your outburst. Surely you must have something close to that amount by now?"

George glanced away, looking sheepish. Murdoch kept staring at him intensely like he would a suspect until he cracked.

"To tell the truth, sir, I've been getting a little carried away with my spending habits and..."

_As if you weren't before?_

"And what, George?"

The sheepish expression came back and he rubbed his neck. "I might have invested a large amount of it in the wrong enterprise."

"How bad is it? Are you bankrupt?"

"No, nothing like that, Will, but things have certainly taken a turn for the worse." George sighed. "I know what you're going to say, I had this coming. You always warned me that this would happen. First with the bowling alley in our home and then with the film franchise idea. So let me have it, Will. Tell me what a fool I am."

Indeed he had been thinking all of these things but that was besides the point now.

"Does Ruby know?"

"Not yet."

_ That's a bit surprising. Perhaps her reporter instincts have gotten rusty during her pregnancy?_

"You have to tell her."

"I know," he said, sighing once more. "I'm just waiting for the right time."

"There is no right time, George. Trust me, just tell her. You'll feel a lot better if you get this off your chest."

"I don't know...she's already mad at me...this revelation isn't going to help matters."

Murdoch was well acquainted with the Ogden wrath and didn't envy his brother-in-law's position.

"No it won't, George, but you owe her the truth and keeping secrets of that magnitude are never good for a marriage. From everything we've seen during our careers, you know this to be true."

_ She's more likely to kill you if you continue to obscure the truth rather than to just tell her._

"All right, Will, you win. I'll tell her when this investigation is over."

"Good."

They sat in silence the rest of the way back to the precinct. Once there they headed straight to the inspectors office to give him an update. For a change he wasn't leaning back in his seat and indulging in his favourite past time. Brackenreid was busy on the telephone _and_ he was having a civil conversation for once.

"...won't forget, Margaret." A brief pause. "I love you too, muffin."

Hanging up the receiver, he caught them watching him from just outside his office and scowled.

"What are you two looking at? Isn't a man allowed to express himself to his wife?"

It always amused Murdoch how sensitive his boss was about such matters, as if showing the smallest amount of emotion somehow made him less of a man. Neither replied and Brackenreid grunted and then stood up and headed over to his alcohol cabinet.

After pouring himself a drink and offering George one, which the acting detective gratefully accepted and downed, he said, "That was a job well done, bugalugs, calling in everyone as quickly as you did. Took a lot of moxie to take initiative like that instead of waiting for your superior officers say so."

Murdoch was unsure if this was a backhanded compliment, meant to chastise the younger man for what could be perceived as stepping out of line. Apparently George was uncertain too because he didn't respond.

Brackenreid frowned. "What? Nothing to say! Remind me not to give you compliments anytime soon."

A bit of an awkward silence ensued.

"So, lay it on me, Murdoch. What did the old codger have to say about the fire?"

"Quite a lot, sir," said Murdoch in his most formal pose with his hands behind his back.

"And was any of it actually useful?"

"Possibly."

Brackenreid had been in the middle of taking a sip when he responded but stopped and glared at the detective.

"_Well_?"

Murdoch filled him in on the men Mr. Ryan saw.

"So?" he said gruffly. "Where are these sketches?"

"I don't have any yet...nor do I plan on getting any."

Brackenreid was incredulous. "Why the bloody hell not?"

George was staring at him curiously too.

"I believe Mr. Ryan is lying about their existence."

"He seemed genuine enough to me, sir," said George.

"That may well be the case, George but no one else interviewed recalls seeing these men and I had the distinct impression that Mr. Ryan was an attention seeker. He was far too animated and nonplussed about such a terrible occurrence for my liking."

The inspector scoffed. "Even _you_ would have been hard pressed not to be excited if your places had been reversed!"

Murdoch eyed him with a wry little smile. "Perhaps. Or perhaps Mr. Ryan created these men as a way to distract us from the truth."

"Which is?" both George and Brackenreid asked simultaneously.

"That _he_ started the fire."

* * *

***10.3 million to be precise! Which is probably like a billion nowadays!**

**And in case you were wondering, yes, Ryan is modeled after Hagrid. I would say it's in tribute to the new series of movies to be made about fantastical beasts but I had written this long before that announcement. **


	3. A Friendly Face on Fire

His colleagues shared a look.

"You're saying he was trying to be a hero? That he was trying to get some recognition?"

"It seems logical to me, sir. Mr. Ryan is past his prime, he lives what I assume must be a very boring existence, watching over the same building night in and night out. And we all know what happens when one has idle hands...But he has a conscience and so he made sure no one was left in the warehouse before starting the fire. Obviously he never expected it to get so out of hand-"

There was a knock on the door and they all looked over at Higgins.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt sirs, but there's some men here to see you. They say it's urgent."

Murdoch cocked his head to see four men waiting by the admission desk. They were exactly as the old man had described.

"Care to rethink that theory, me old mucker?" asked a grinning Brackenreid who then downed the rest of his drink. "Send them in Higgins."

Nodding once he said,"Sir."

When the men were closer George sputtered, "Jimmy?! Is that you?!"

The detective peered at the smiling native American man before them and realized that his protege was indeed correct, though Jimmy looked markedly more exhausted than the last time he had been in this office.

_What on earth is going on?_

This was the same man who helped them track down a delusional (albeit totally justified) killer over eight years earlier using long lost skills that few if any white men still possessed.

"One and the same, George," he replied holding out a strong hand. "It's good to see you."

The constable hesitated momentarily and then shook it vigorously. Murdoch knew this hesitation was born out of a desire to grab the man in a big bear hug and the usual inner struggle against his over friendliness and not because he didn't want to touch him because he was Indian.

"What are you doing here?!" exclaimed George as Murdoch also shook hands with Jimmy.

Jimmy gave them a wry smile. "We have some information about the dead man you found in The Clarke building. Or rather, under it."

The three police men shared a look and then the other clean shaven man, the one the watchman had alluded to as being their leader, spoke up for the first time.

"Don't worry, we had nothing to do with his death...or starting the fire for that matter."

His voice was husky and weary, how Murdoch imagined his own voice must sound this morning after little to no sleep the previous night. It was also clearly American.

"And who the bloody hell are you?" enquired Brackenreid gruffly.

"Harris Johnson," replied the reasonably attractive brown haired man. He offered his hand and continued, "A senior agent of The Pinkertons and one of their most faithful servants, if I do say so myself."

Oh boy, thought Murdoch, here we go.

To say the inspector had a less than amicable relationship with that detecting agency would be a grievous understatement. Several times during Brackenreid's reign, they had trounced in here, demanding the constabulary's full support in apprehending some suspect who continued to allude them, even if they had their hands full with more important matters. They always gave off such a superior air that even Murdoch couldn't help but be a bit annoyed with them.

Brackenreid didn't take his hand and said, "Is that supposed to impress me?" and there was a bit of an awkward silence.

"Ah," said Johnson smiling faintly, "that's right. Now I remember. You're not much of a fan. Must be afraid we'll show you boys up again."

The inspector looked like he might explode for a second but then the moment passed.

"Look here sunshine," he said in a barely restrained growl, advancing on the man, "just because your agency has existed longer than this station house, doesn't mean you know everything there is to know about detecting."

Johnson was still amused. "Doesn't it though?"

When the ugly vein in Brackenreid's forehead began to pulse, Murdoch knew it was time to step in.

"What is this information you have?" he said politely, if not a bit stiffly.

Johnson glanced at the detective and then back at Brackenreid. The inspector backed off and went to pour himself another drink.

"The dead man went by the name of Richard Castle, though this was just another alias in a long line of them. His real name is believed to be Alexander Rodgers. We had been tracking him and his partner in crime, one Katherine Beckett, real name unknown, for quite some time. We had reason to believe that they were here in Toronto after skipping town in New York City."

Murdoch peered at his boss and waited for him to take the lead. He appeared to be lost in thought (or more likely the whiskey) so the detective took over this interview.

"Why were you after these people?"

"You mean besides the rather large reward?" The policemen looked at him blankly. "They were extremely talented bank robbers turned confidence tricksters and had been swindling people all across America for years. Unfortunately, they've proven to be remarkably adept at evading the police...so they finally called us in. This is the first time we've been anywhere close to apprehending them. And now it appears that only one remains."

He said the last bit somewhat sadly and Murdoch wondered what the stipulation to the bounty was. Perhaps they only got paid if they were brought in alive?

"If they're so good at evading the police, why do you want our help?"

"I'm afraid that if we don't find her soon, we never will. With her partner gone, who we suspect was also her lover, she'll likely disappear all together. We need every available man on this before it's too late. And let's face it detective, you are one of the best. Even _I_ can admit that."

Ignoring the man's blatant attempt at flattery he asked, "What makes you so sure that she hasn't already fled?"

"We've been keeping an eye on all major transportation hubs out of the city. It should be sufficient enough to trap her for a little while. But she is a crafty woman and she'll find a way out sooner rather than later."

"One more question," he said, eyeing him closely. "Why exactly do you think that the dead man was Rodgers?"

Murdoch was still waiting on his wife's report so they couldn't have gleaned the information from her, not that she ever would have told them without his consent.

"As I said before, detective, we have been tracking them for quite some time. We knew they were in that area...we just didn't know which building exactly. If the fire hadn't started, we surely would have caught them already. They likely knew this and that's why they were hesitant to leave the building. An action that proved equally disastrous."

There was a short pause.

"So will you consent to lending us a hand, inspector Brackenred?"

Murdoch cringed internally at the mispronunciation of his name, one of his superior's biggest pet peeves. Murdoch also had the distinct impression that Johnson had made that mistake on purpose because he enjoyed getting Brackenreid's goat which seemed like a grave strategic error considering _they_ were the ones asking for _their_ help and not the other way around.

The often surly man whipped his head up and glared at the slightly younger man. "It's Bracken_reid,"_ he barked.

"Yes, of course, inspector," he replied amicably. "A thousand pardons. So what do you say? Will you lend us your detective Murdoch?"

Brackenreid stared at him flabbergasted.

"We've got more important matters to attend to!" he bellowed. "In case you tossers hadn't noticed, the city is in goddamn disarray!"

"We're well aware of that, inspector, but miraculously no one else died in this tragedy and unless you and your men are personally going to help rebuild the city, I'd say you could spare us some of your time and man power."

"He's got a point, sir," said George bravely. "And Jimmy _did_ help us out awhile back. We should return the favour."

Though he tried to hide it, it was obvious to Murdoch that George was quite eager to work with his friend again. No doubt this played a role in his decision to speak up.

Brackenreid closed his eyes, apparently trying to calm down. A few seconds later he opened them and stared daggers at Johnnson. "Fine! Take your bloody pick! But I want this over and done with pronto!" Pointing savagely, "And then I never want to see you lot in my station house again!"

Johnson snapped his fingers and one of the mustached men handed the inspector a large folder. "This is everything we have on the tricksters, including the most recent photographs we could find of them. There's no guarantee she'll actually look very similar anymore, given all of her wardrobe and hair changes, but I'm sure you'll agree, it's still better than nothing."

Brackenreid handed the folder to Murdoch and he flipped it open. The first page showed two very attractive people sitting on a bench somewhere undisclosed. Even from just the photograph, he could tell they were very much in love, or had been. It was a shame that they had turned to a life of crime.

"I'll give you a few hours to get acquainted with that information, detective. In the meantime, we will continue to search for her. Who knows? With any luck we will not require your services at all."

"Good hunting," said George to the men, but most likely it was really only meant for Jimmy.

They all nodded, Jimmy flashing him a smile and then were on their way.

"Well that was quite unexpected!" exclaimed George shortly after they were out of earshot.

"Indeed," replied Murdoch, the cogs of his brain struggling to get into gear in his sluggish state of mind.

George must have recognized the look for he stuck his head out of Brackenreid's office and asked one of the lads to please make them a pot of strong coffee.

Brackenreid had slumped into his chair and was silently brooding; which could be just as ominous as when he was yelling. Therefore it was a bit of a mixed atmosphere, one of extreme anticipation but also one of deep foreboding. The latter mood would not be helped now that Murdoch had just thought of something.

"What do you make of all this, Murdoch?" asked Brackenreid suddenly, gesturing towards the folder still in his hands.

"I'm not sure yet, sir, but several puzzling questions do come to mind."

"Such as?"

"Why were they hiding out in a warehouse and why that specific one? Why not just stay in a hotel under a different assumed name?"

Brackenreid was thoughtful for a moment rubbing his face, attempting to wake up. "It's like the Pinkertons said, those confidence bastards knew that they were on to them. They would have expected that all the hotels were being watched."

"Perhaps," said Murdoch, not sounding very convinced.

"What is it?" said his boss, knowing the tell tale signs that he was holding something back.

"It might not be anything, sir, but doesn't it strike you as odd that out of all places they could have been hiding, it just _happened_ to be the one next door to the start of the worst fire this city has ever seen?"

Both Brackenreid and George frowned. "Yes, that is very curious, sir," said George. "What does it mean?"

He had an idea that would make one colleague very happy and the other indignant. However he was spared divulging this notion when constable Worseley knocked and entered bearing gifts. He placed a tray laden with biscuits as well as several cups of coffee.

George put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Good man," and with the other picked up a biscuit that he immediately crammed into his mouth. Everyone stared at him. "What?" he said thickly. "I haven't eaten since yesterday."

"Anyway," said Brackenreid, "what are you thinking, Murdoch?"

"As you know, I've been of the belief that this fire was no accident, regardless that no proof of any wrongdoing has been found. And now I believe that I know who set it off."

The inspector smirked and put his feet up on the desk and his hands in his lap. "Giving up on your previous theory so quickly, huh?"

George had apparently taken the time to follow his rather obvious train of thought and after swallowing quickly burst out, "You can't possibly think they had something to do with it, sir! Jimmy would never be a part of this!"

"How can you be so sure, George? You haven't seen or heard from him in over eight years. People can change an awful lot in that time frame."

"No!" he exploded with youthful vigour. "I'm telling you, Will, you've got this all wrong! Besides, the Pinkertons are known for being the most steadfast bunch in history!"

"Exactly," Murdoch responded calmly. "Would they then not be the most likely to catch their man by any means possible, including smoking them out at the expense of city property?"

Brackenreid laughed merrily. "I like your thinking, me old mucker! Let's put those tossers in their place!"

"But, sir," continued George in an urgent manner, "if they were guilty of starting the fire, why would they show up here?!"

"I'll tell you why," said the inspector darkly. "Because they think they're so bloody trustworthy that no one would ever suspect them of something so idiotic." He smiled. "Thankfully I don't share this consensus. And I'm glad that neither do you, Murdoch."

"But-"

"Can it Crabtree!"

George glared at both of them in turn and then marched out of the office, without so much as a second glance at the biscuits. Murdoch felt a little badly considering that his brother-in-law had been having a rough time of things lately. But the detective had a job to do and sentiment (and family) would not be getting in the way.

* * *

**And no, I did not make a mistake with the coffee. George has always liked it and Murdoch developed a taste for it after his daughter was born, which I mentioned at the beginning of my war story.  
**


	4. Safe on Fire

Murdoch stared at the charred remains of the deceased man while his wife cleaned up.

_Such a gruesome way to die. Possibly the worst._

Unfortunately the man in The Clarke building had not been the only casualty of the fire. Another man, *John Croft, had been killed a few hours ago when some dynamite used for removing one of the unsafe structures went off prematurely. The largest part they had found of him was a hand with only two fingers. Even that method of death was preferable to the one suffered by the man before him. At least it had been quick and painless. He never would have known what hit him.

"After comparing his Bertillion measurements with those provided to me by the state of Nebraska,"- Rodgers obtained his criminal record after being caught riding a horse...naked, something Julia had found most amusing- "I am able to confirm that this is indeed Alexander Rodgers. It appears your friends information was accurate."

Murdoch made a face. "I would hardly call them my friends, Julia."

She rolled her eyes. "It's just a manner of speech, William. I wasn't being literal."

"Of course," he said apologetically. Switching topics quickly, "Cause of death?"

"I was quite thorough and determined that he definitely died as a direct result of the fire. However, both of his legs appear to have broken bones in them which could indicate foul play of some sort...unless of course he was pinned down by something heavy. Was he?"

"Yes, I believe so," said Murdoch frowning.

She looked at him closely. "You seem disappointed by my assessment."

"If he had been murdered outright, it would be much easier to pinpoint his killer...or killers."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you still believe the Pinkertons to be the cause of the fire?" Julia paused for a second, "Even Jimmy?"

"They were seen at the origin right before it started. They were getting desperate to catch the confidence tricksters." Murdoch gestured to the slab, "They were certain that this was Rodgers. It all adds up to one conclusion."

Julia smirked and said, "Not long ago you were certain the old man had done it."

"I fail to see your point," he replied rigidly.

His wife glanced around the morgue and then moved closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Regardless if he was in a grumpy mood he could never stop himself from returning the favour and holding her waist. By now it was simply instinct, simply muscle memory to hold her whenever the opportunity presented itself. Lord knows given the demands of the job and their children's constant presence at home, it was far too infrequent, even though they technically worked together. For how much longer _that_ would even be, he didn't know.

There had been an ever increasing interest in his wife to come and work at The Women's College Hospital on University Avenue. It was a teaching hospital for the public and it was exactly the sort of thing Julia had always been passionate about; empowering women with the knowledge and tools with which to take care of their own bodies and remain healthy no matter what. The college had even been founded by one of Julia's greatest idols, Dr. Emily Stowe, who had unfortunately passed away the previous year, to his wife's great discontent. Though she hadn't said so, he suspected a large amount of this disquiet was caused by regret in never meeting her in person, especially since they had lived in close proximity for a very long time.

"I seem to recall some sage advice from a certain handsome detective, that of not jumping to conclusions."

Their faces were awfully close and he was finding it hard to concentrate, even more so than usual given his lack of sleep. If she was just as tired as him, she was hiding it well.

"I'll take that into consideration," he replied after a moment.

"See that you do, detective," she breathed out. Julia moved even closer into him and then rubbed her nose against his a few times. "You wouldn't want to rush something so...important."

It had been over two weeks since they were last intimate and so he knew if he gave in to his rising desire, he would have his way with her, right then and there.

With herculean strength and a will of steel that only he could wield, he pulled away from her and said, "Well, I must be off." Her expression became sulky but he somehow smiled pleasantly enough even though he was going crazy on the inside. "Have a nice day, Julia." Then because she was looking so forlorn he gave her a quick peck and instantly regretted it. She latched onto him like a succubus, stealing his life force and reason, and if a loud, lively song hadn't just come on, he wouldn't have been able to snap out of it.

"Julia, please!" he gasped out. "I really must be off!"

His wife released him and was now quite annoyed looking.

"You never have time for me anymore!" she snapped with a furious arm movement. "If it's not work or the children or some _damn_ invention, you're off in your own little world, totally oblivious to my needs!"

"That's not true," he replied a bit hotly, "and you know it."

"Do I?" she grumbled, crossing her arms against her chest and turning away from him.

Clearly this spat was already at an end and there was no point trying to force the issue so he simply left, more frustrated than he had been in a long while. It took him all the way back to the station house before even a fraction of his common sense and reason returned to him and he only managed that much because the chill, April air had a slight sobering effect on his mind. So it was that he was rather out of it when George assailed him, going on and on about something.

"_George_," he said more sharply than he had intended, rubbing his forehead as he finally made it to his office and then plopped into his chair.

The chatter instantly died down.

Murdoch steadied his nerves and continued, "What on earth is cause for so much enthusiasm?"

His protege seemed to be equally annoyed as his wife but spoke professionally enough. "As I was saying, sir, there's been a development in the Castle case."

Murdoch instantly became more alert, if not a bit puzzled. "We know his real name, George, why are you still using the alias?"

"I just liked the sound of it better. Richard Castle has more of a ring to it, don't you think?"

Murdoch just stared at him blankly. Then he gestured with his hand. "You were saying..."

"Huh?"

"The _case_, George."

"Right. Well, apparently once the work crews started using dynamite to break up the cement that was too heavy to move-"

"Actually, George, cement is just a binding component of concrete. A common misconception."

"Well anyway," he continued even more irritated, "they discovered a safe buried beneath it on The Clarke property."

He failed to see what was so earth shattering about this pronouncement and George could tell. "It was an _unclaimed_ safe, sir. The owners of the building say they didn't have one like that."

Arcing his eyebrows, "So you believe this safe to belong to the confidence tricksters?"

"Yes," George responded, nodding vigorously, "I do."

"That's all well and good, George, but how does this help us determine where Beckett is, or for that matter, who started the fire?"

"I don't know, Will, but it's better than nothing!" he snapped.

The detective seemed to be having this effect on everyone lately. Strangely it seemed like only the inspector was in a good mood, giddy at the prospect of arresting some Pinkertons and being on good terms with his wife for once.

Murdoch sighed internally. "If it's any consolation, George, I think I owe you an apology." His brother-in-law looked at him expectantly. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions about the Pinkertons...and Jimmy. That's not very good police work."

"No, it isn't," he muttered.

"In any case, where is this safe?"

George stared at him strangely. "Right there," he said, pointing behind him at Murdoch's work table.

_ I must be more tired than I thought to have missed something like that!_

He rubbed his eyes and then walked over to it in order to get a good look at it. The safe was partially crushed and melted and as a result the hinges had melded to the rest of the structure.

"I know it looks bad, sir, but I'm sure you can work something out, right?"

"Yes, I suppose." He was going to say that there was little point because the contents were likely destroyed but didn't want to get into another fight. "I need you to take this out back."

"What for, sir?" he asked quizzically.

"The only way to open this is to make a new door. You will need to acquire the services of an arc welder in order to do this. And it would be best not to do this indoors lest we start another fire."

"I'll get right on that, sir!" George turned to leave and then looked back at him. "Thank you for apologizing, Will."

Murdoch shrugged and then smiled. "We're family, George, for better or for worse."

* * *

A half an hour later the safe had been 'cracked' and George, Henry and Brackenreid crowded around behind Murdoch in order to get a look inside. It was a complete mess. Though there were various slots for separating the valuables, it did little good against the extended heat of the extreme fire. Most of the contents had been paper and as such had been burned to a crisp with only a few surviving fragments. But these fragments had adhered to several slabs of a partially melted unidentified material, which of course had also fused together to some degree. He hadn't been expecting much but something a little more promising would have been nice. As well, these contents struck him as very strange. Wouldn't bank robbers turned swindlers have actual valuables to store?

"What the bloody hell is it?" asked Brackenreid as Murdoch held the slightly warm mass up.

"I haven't the foggiest, sir."

"That's it then, isn't it?" said George gloomily. "This is completely useless."

"Cheer up bugalugs," said Brackenreid, putting a hand to his shoulder. "At least your friend isn't behind bars."

Murdoch sensed the yet lingering just behind his bosses statement. Sometimes he had no tact whatsoever. George made a face but didn't comment.

"Are we sure that this is completely useless?" uttered Henry. "Can't you work your magic on this, sir?"

"For the last time, Henry, my techniques are not magical in the slightest, they adhere to stringent principles of science and nature that-"

"Give it a rest, me old mucker," chuckled Brackenreid. "This numbskull is never going to get it."

Henry looked crestfallen and for a second he reminded Murdoch of his own son when he failed to understand something. The inspector was really starting to irritate him today with his bad manners, especially since Brackenried himself usually didn't understand half of what he was talking about. The happier his boss was, the more oblivious he seemed to be of others feelings. It was oddly counter-intuitive but the inspector had always had strange emotional states, with or without drugs.

The detective rubbed his forehead again. "I'll see what I can do, Henry. If you'd like, you can assist me. But I don't guarantee results. Far from it."

"Really, sir?" said Henry excitedly, beaming at him.

"Really, Henry."

George was also beaming at him and Murdoch couldn't help but smile a little. Brackenreid looked at them all in turn. "This ought to be good," he said and then laughed derisively.

* * *

Before Murdoch even had a chance to ascertain what the mystery material was or derive any other clues from the paper fragments, The Pinkertons showed up again.

"It appears that you've been busy, detective," said Johnson, gesturing to the safe and its contents. "May I ask what you are working on?"

"This safe was discovered on The Clarke property. It's believed to belong to the confidence artists."

"Indeed?" he replied raising his eyebrows. "And have you had any luck determining anything of value?"

"Not yet, sir, but I haven't had a chance to-" he eyed Henry standing nearby, "work my magic."

Henry smiled appreciatively.

"Well then," Johnson said, "I wouldn't want to keep you from it." The man glanced at the other police present in the precinct, resting his eyes on George. "So which one of these fine fellows can we borrow in the meantime? It would be useful to have a fresh set of eyes, particularly those of one intimately knowledgeable about the area."

"Uh, doesn't Jimmy here fit that bill?" said Henry.

Jimmy glanced at the constable. Murdoch tried to remember if they had met during the 'werewolf' case. He remained uncertain. "I haven't been in the city for over five years and a lot has changed. It would be easier if we had a local with us."

"Let's go!" exclaimed George, grabbing his helmet.

"Don't you think you should change first?" said Jimmy, stopping George's movement. George looked at him uncomprehending. "We're looking for a criminal, George. The last thing we want to do is tip her off."

"Oh, yes of course," the acting detective replied, a bit sheepishly. Glancing back at him, "Good luck, sir! I know you can do it!"

Murdoch simply nodded.

"We could use another of your men, detective. Splitting up would make the search faster. How about this young man?" he asked gesturing to Henry.

Henry looked severely disappointed at the prospect of leaving just before he might actually learn something.

"He's unavailable at the moment, I'm afraid. But Constable Worseley should be more than adequate for your needs."

The Pinkerton man nodded and then the crew left shortly thereafter.

"Right then, Henry," said Murdoch rubbing his hands together, "let's see what we can make of this."

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

***The only recorded death involved with the fire's aftermath. There's a street named after him downtown.**

**And for clarification's sake, this is not a Castle crossover, I just couldn't resist giving a nod to the show since it's starting again soon and because it amused me. Mostly the latter actually.**


	5. Carriage on Fire

The teams had split up and Jimmy and George were left to their own devices during the search. Currently they were staking out an exit to the city, one that The Pinkertons were previously unaware of but that George _had_ been. So far it had been exceedingly dull and somewhat cold in the confines of the carriage. Every few seconds one of them would pull the curtain back and take a peek. Hardly anyone had been this way in the last half hour.

"What have you been up to Jimmy, since last we met?"

"You mean besides tracking down fugitives and criminals all across North America?" he asked smirking.

"Yes," said George grinning, "besides that."

More seriously, "Before I answer that question I just want to thank you again for your recommendation all those years ago. Without it..."

Jimmy trailed off, looking away, and George knew what he meant. Without his recommendation, his friend would have been doomed to work in the stables the rest of his life. Just like women, Negroes, and Asians, Indians were not allowed to have a career in the constabulary. And had he not met many exceptional people who would have fit right in if not for prejudice and fear? Besides Jimmy, he could still vividly recall a young woman with remarkable hearing, eyesight, memory and sleuthing skill, just like him. Once in a blue moon he wondered what had happened to her and if she had ever managed to start up that detecting agency of her own. Sadly, he doubted it.

Using his increased standing in the community after his marriage, he tried to make a difference and get the constabulary's board members to change their minds. But he had no such luck. The injustice of keeping such promising talents out of the precinct was enough to make his blood boil. Suffice it to say, he had a lot of respect for The Pinkertons because they didn't discriminate based on gender or otherwise. If you were a good detective, that was all that mattered. As it should be.

"I'm just glad I could be of service. You deserved to be given a chance at following your dream. Everyone should."

Jimmy nodded once. "Anyway, besides the tracking I do for The Pinkertons," he hesitated briefly, "I got married...but-"

George raised his eyebrows and then stared at his old friends gloved left hand. There was a slight bump on the ring finger, just like through his own leather gloves.

"Why that's wonderful news!" he exclaimed, patting him on the forearm. "I'm so very happy for you!" Jimmy looked at him grimly and his expression instantly became much more sober.

"Things didn't exactly go as planned, George," Jimmy replied quietly, absent mindedly touching his wedding ring through the fabric.

George dreaded to ask what he meant by that and his friend must have realized for he continued without more prompting.

"One night when I wasn't home, someone came and...murdered Wendy-" his voice broke, just like George's heart. Jimmy closed his eyes in a pained way. "They never even figured out who did it."

While the silence grew between them he desperately tried to think of something compassionate to say.

"I'm so sorry, Jimmy," he said placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I can't imagine..."

If anything ever happened to Ruby or his daughter, Holly, he didn't know what he would do.

"What's done is done. All I can do now is try to move on with my life. Luckily my work is fairly time consuming...if not a bit dull at times."

George definitely knew the feeling. How many times had he searched criminal records for hours only to have the detective discover the culprit some other way?

Jimmy caught his eye and George could see that it was still misting over. His friend smiled a little, "Say, is that camera in the station house one that can take continuous photographs? I know your detective Murdoch made something like that a few years back."

"_What_?" George said sharply, distracted by the abrupt change in topic. Clearly Jimmy did not desire to linger on gloomy thoughts so George followed his lead. "Oh yes, he built what I like to call the Insighter or the Snooper Duper or sometimes when I'm in a wary mood the Evil Eye of Egypt. But that's not the same thing that is in the station house. That camera is much simpler and only takes a photograph if activated by a tripwire as it would be too expensive, not to mention pointless, to monitor our own precinct continuously everyday. Moving pictures would be the same issue."

"Well whatever you call it, it sure would be useful right about now."

"I don't know about that Jimmy. If we aren't here too, this Beckett person would just slip right past us."

"Yes, I suppose you are right, George." Jimmy sighed and pulled back the curtain of the carriage to take another peek outside. "Still, I can't think of anything I like doing less than these stakeouts."

"Oh believe me, Jimmy, there are much worse things."

His friend looked at him closely. "That I do know."

* * *

"How's it going Murdoch?" asked Brackenreid with a smug smile. "Has wonder boy here proved he's a scientific genius after all?"

Murdoch looked over the bubbling laboratory apparati and at his boss. Then he glanced at Henry. The lad had been enthusiastic enough...but not nearly as quick a study as George. Murdoch had given him the more simple job of using puddy to pull off as many 'ink' marks as he could from the barely legible fragments of paper and then create a list of all the words. As far as Murdoch could make out, they were utter nonsense.

"He's doing quite well."

"Really?" said Brackenreid, raising his eyebrows and still smiling in that annoying way. "I find that hard to believe. He can barely develop a bloody photograph! I'm surprised he can even tie his own shoes in the morning!"

_That's it! I've had enough of this behaviour!_

"Could I have a word in private, sir?"

"Sure, me old mucker. Higgins, shift it!"

The constable scrambled out of the detective's office, hurriedly closing the door on the way out.

_That's not what I meant._

"Sir, while I appreciate that you are in a good mood," -_and therefore are more oblivious to people's feelings than usual_, -"I must say that that is no excuse for your deplorable treatment of Henry."

"How do you mean?" he said quizzically.

_Could he really be that unaware?_

"Sir, you have been constantly berating him today for no good reason."

Brackenreid made a face. "That's just my way, Murdoch. It builds character. I would have thought you'd know that by now."

"Can't you see that he's taking it to heart? That he _always_ has?"

"What, Higgins?" he said looking out the window at the lad at his desk. "He looks fine to me. Besides, doesn't he himself make plenty of insensitive jokes at Crabtree's expense?"

"Where do you think he learned it from, sir?"

Murdoch let that sink in for a bit.

"Oh."

"As well, I've always taken his sarcastic humour to be a defence mechanism, designed to shield him from showing his true feelings."

"Look Murdoch," the inspector said brashly, "the man is almost thirty-two years old! He _should _be bloody well hiding his emotions! All real men do!"

"Is that so?" said Murdoch in an irritated manner. "I seem to recall you were expressing yourself to your wife not that long ago."

"That's bloody well different!"

"So you continue to say."

Brackenreid scowled. "I don't need to listen to this! The last time I checked, this is still _my_ station house!"

With that he barged out of the office, flinging the door open with such force that it could have fallen off it's hinges had they been in worse shape. When it slammed shut, it shook the room and the many glassed instruments he was currently using. Thankfully everything remained intact.

"What on earth was that about?" asked his wife's voice from the other entrance to his office.

He turned to face her and after a few seconds of looking over at the inspectors office, locked eyes with her. For a moment neither said a word. This had been their method of communication for so many years before they finally found the courage to share their true feelings in a more tangible form. As such, it didn't happen as often as it used to but when it did, he still found himself getting shivers down his spine and an almost overwhelming desire to touch her.

She broke eye contact first. "Look, William, I just stopped by to apologize for my behaviour earlier. It was very juvenile of me."

"There's no need, Julia," he responded, getting up and going over to her. "I quite understand your feelings and your...frustrations."

They shared another glance. She touched his face and then sighed.

"I suppose it's always going to be like this, isn't it? Unless we both quit our jobs that is...and then never leave the bedroom."

His eyebrows just about dislocated at that notion.

"As tempting as that sounds, Julia, I believe that even _we _would eventually get bored of such...exploits." He shook his head. "No, it would never work I'm afraid."

She laughed softly. "Still taking me seriously after all these years. What am I going to do with you?"

Before he could respond she looked past him at the laboratory equipment and said, "What have we here, William?"

"I'm conducting an experiment."

Julia looked at him again and smirked. "Was that a joke, detective?"

He simply smiled in return. "I've been analyzing the contents of a safe found on The Clarke property."

"And what have you discovered?" she asked moving closer to the contraption of bubbling flasks and tubes. It was obvious that her clinical mind had taken over and she would be all business from here on out.

"That it's made out of what appears to be toluene and various different acids, most notably nitrates and oleum." His wife continued to look at him with a completely blank look. "These are components of Trinitrotoluene or more commonly TNT."

Julia raised her eyebrows. "Explosives?"

"It appears so."

Now she seemed confused. "But wouldn't the fire have detonated it?"

Murdoch shook his head. "No, TNT has a very high temperature for detonation. So high that it can be melted without exploding. As you can imagine this makes it very versatile in its uses."

She was thoughtful for a moment. "You mentioned that these confidence tricksters used to be bank robbers. Do you think they were planning on taking that exploit up again?"

"Unlikely. They were being pursued by The Pinkertons. It wouldn't have been very smart of them to take up their old habits. Besides, from everything I read in their file, there was nothing about the use of explosives. The woman, Beckett, simply cracked the safes the old fashioned way while her partner kept the authorities busy."

Julia frowned. "I wonder what they were doing with it then."

"Indeed."

She was contemplative once more. "Have you considered the possibility that the safe did not belong to them?"

Murdoch was startled by the notion, not because it was so surprising but rather because it should have occurred to him awhile ago.

_If not them, then who?_

* * *

"No way!" exclaimed George. "Absolutely no way!"

"Why not, George?"

"Because! I know for a fact that she doesn't exist!"

"She?" said Jimmy, close to laughing.

"Yes, she! Everyone knows that the monster of the lakes is clearly a she!"

"I thought you said you didn't believe in her?"

"I don't! But if she did, she would be a she! It's just common sense!"

Before this disagreement could come to an end -the discussion had been about who would win in a fight, with the combatants as fantastical creatures- Jimmy had peeked out the window and apparently noticed someone approaching.

"Quiet, George," he hushed suddenly.

George instantly became alert and looked out his side of the carriage too. A woman was getting nearer. A woman who looked oddly familiar.

They nodded to each other and when she was much closer to their carriage, they both hopped out simultaneously. Needless to say she was startled and then began to run away.

"Police!" yelled George running after her, "Stop! Police!"

After a moment of indecision, George threw himself on top of her and a split second later a shot rang out. The acting detective whirled around, wild eyed and looking for the culprit, but not finding him. Just behind him was Jimmy, looking just as spooked as him and then another shot was fired and this time it hit pay dirt. Jimmy collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg.

"Jimmy!" he screamed as the blood began to slowly mix with the snowy ground. George dropped to his knees in order to provide what little aid he could. His gloves became covered in crimson as he applied pressure to the wound. Thankfully it wasn't gushing but just trickling through his finger tips. Apparently an artery had not been hit.

"I'm all right, George," Jimmy said grimly. "This is nothing." Jimmy grabbed his forearm. "You have to get her. I need you to get her for me."

Tearing his gaze away from his friend for a second, he noticed Beckett staring at them, her blonde wig on the ground, revealing her to be a brunette. She appeared unharmed. Their eyes locked and then she bolted. The acting detective started to chase her again when there were two more shots, this time from the opposite direction. A cry could be heard and then there was a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Forgetting Jimmy's words because he was so incensed, George took after the now bleeding assailant instead, regardless of the fact that he was unarmed, having left his weapon in the carriage thinking that it wouldn't be necessary.

"Stop! You are under arrest!"

George sprinted along the high ground in this rural area, the better to keep his sights on the shooter. Even so it seemed that it would be impossible to catch up to the assailant. They were just too far ahead. The man stopped and turned around to shoot him but by an act of God, a carriage pulled into the street at the exact same moment and they collided. He flew backwards, gun flying out of his hand and then remained there until George skidded down a snowy hill to reach him.

A small group had formed to see how the man was doing.

"Everyone back up! This is police business!"

He roughly heaved up the semi-conscious, bleeding man and said darkly, "You picked the wrong constable to mess with! Let's go you scoundrel!"

When he arrived back at their carriage, half dragging the man, leaving demented sled trails in their wake, the scene had changed little except for one major fact: the confidence trickster was nowhere to be found.

_Hells Bells!_

Jimmy was holding a gun in his hand and it was clear who had shot at the assailant. His other hand had continued to apply pressure to the gunshot wound. As a result, the ground around his leg had not become saturated with blood.

"You let her get away," he said wearily.

"I'm sorry."

"Get me out of here, George."


	6. Work on Fire

"What the bloody hell happened, Crabtree?" barked the inspector.

The three Pinkerton agents from before were also present. Johnson seemed highly agitated. The other two mustached men, who had yet to say a single word, were outside the office and impassive. Jimmy was currently being tended to by his wife, refusing to go to the hospital.

"It was a set up, sir," George said gloomily, "she had been expecting us. She escaped when I was distracted by the gunman."

"Damn," said Johnson darkly. "I knew we needed more men on this. Now she's gone forever!" He eyed George savagely and advanced towards him. "And it's all your fault! You let your personal feelings cloud your judgement!"

"Now hold on a minute!" growled Brackenreid making his way over to the agent. "You leave Crabtree out of this! This was _your _bloody cock-up! You should have warned us to expect something like this!"

"Excuse me for assuming your men knew how to do their jobs!" he snarled. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised considering _you're _their leader!"

"That's it!" hollered the inspector. "Get out of my office! Get out of my station house! Never come back here!"

The men were about two inches apart and would certainly come to blows any second now.

Murdoch cleared his throat and they both whipped their heads in his direction yelling, "What?!"

"Terribly sorry to interrupt your...discussion, sirs, but I don't believe this case is at an end."

"Why the bloody hell not?" fumed Brackenreid.

"You're forgetting that we still have the gunman in custody. Perhaps he knows something about her whereabouts?"

They instantly brightened at the notion and the inspector went over to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a very old, very worn pair of black gloves.

"I don't think that will be necessary, sir," said Murdoch tersely.

It bothered him that after all these years, his boss still thought violence was the first and best solution to problems.

"You think you can get him to talk?"

"I'll certainly do my best, sir."

"Fine. But if you can't,"- he waved the gloves, "I'm taking over."

* * *

When he entered the interview room, the gunman didn't acknowledge his existence.

"So, Mr.- I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

The man kept his eyes focused on the far wall, as if he were seeing through the detective.

_That's how it's going to be, eh? Well, we'll see about that._

"Mr. Doe, it is in your best interest to cooperate with me. You are charged with aiding and abetting a criminal as well as the attempted murder of two arbitrators of the law. As I'm sure you're aware, these are very serious charges and you could get the noose for them." He let that sink in for a bit before continuing. "But if you tell me what I want to know, I could be persuaded to put in a good word for you."

The gunman still sat there as if he were made of stone. Murdoch was pretty sure he hadn't even blinked in all this time. He had to admit, the man was a bit unnerving, as if he weren't fully human.

"Did you hear what I just said?"

The detective snapped his fingers in front of his face a few times to no result.

Getting a bit frustrated he asked the pertinent questions.

"Where is Katherine Beckett? Did she tell you where she was headed?"

No response.

"Were you a gun for hire or did you have a more personal tie to her?"

No response.

"How much did you know about her operation? What was the TNT for?"

The last question seemed to get his attention.

The gunman smirked at him and said with a slight accent that was hard to place, "You really don't get it, do you?"

Murdoch sized the gunman up for a moment. Clearly he wasn't going to respond to this more modern approach of policing. Hating himself a bit he said, "If you aren't going to give me anything useful, I'll just have to get my inspector in here to loosen your tongue. Trust me, Mr. Doe, he can be very persuasive."

The gunman simply continued to smile. Brackenreid and Johnson had been watching and listening and now the former made his way in, pulling on his gloves.

"You did your best, Murdoch. Now it's my turn. There are _some_ things that I still know better than you."

* * *

Quite awhile later, Brackenreid stormed out of the interview room, gloves slick with blood. He called Murdoch and George into his office but Johnson came in as well as a recently patched up Jimmy on crutches. The two mustached men remained outside, watching, as usual. George had previously learned from Jimmy that they were deaf brothers who were excellent lip readers.

"What did you discover, sir?" asked George eagerly.

"Bloody well nothing!" he exclaimed, ripping off his gloves and pouring himself a drink. "That goddamn wanker wouldn't talk!" George shared a look with his brother-in-law and his friend. Brackenreid downed a healthy serving of whiskey. "I've never seen anything like it! Man's a goddamn robot!"

"So it really is over this time?" said George sadly. "She's gotten away for good?"

George was upset because Jimmy had really wanted to catch her and he had failed him. Jimmy put a hand on his shoulder but otherwise only silence ensued after this pronouncement.

"Detective," said Johnson, "you mentioned something about TNT before. May I ask why?"

"They were the only discernible contents left in the safe we uncovered besides some scraps of paper. There was a slight chance Mr. Doe would have known something about them."

"It got his attention anyway," said Johnson. "Do you think he really does know something?"

"Possibly but it doesn't really matter now, does it? He won't talk."

No one spoke.

"Sirs!" exclaimed Henry barging into the office, holding up some papers and photographs. George thought his friend's entrance was rather rude and that he should have knocked first. "I think I've found something important!"

"What is it, Higgins?" said Brackenreid, settling back into his chair but holding out his hand.

Henry gave the inspector the papers. George noticed that he was positively brimming with excitement, something that rarely happened. As such, the acting detective began to catch his contagious fervour.

"Well, sir," he burst out, "I was investigating the safe more thoroughly and I noticed a slight groove. Apparently it was a switch of some kind because when I pressed on it, a secret compartment was revealed!"

Everyone looked at each other, even the mustached men outside. Now George was almost as excited as his colleague.

"Cracking fine job, Higgins!"

"Thank you, sir!" Henry practically squealed in what George estimated to be an exceedingly unprofessional way.

"How did you miss _that_?" barked Brackenreid to Murdoch. "I thought you were _so_ observant."

His mentor had seemed equally surprised by this discovery but not in a good way.

"What's the matter, sir?" George asked, losing a bit of his excitement.

Gesturing towards the papers now laying on Brackenreid's desk he said, '"I find it hard to believe that these papers came from the safe when all the others were no longer intact." Murdoch walked a few steps over and thumbed through them briefly. "These are barely even scorched."

"So what are you saying, Murdoch?" said Brackenreid, arms crossed. "That someone planted these papers in the safe, after the fact?"

George hadn't been thinking that at all but now that the inspector had, it was the only conclusion he could come to as well. Which meant there was a mole in the precinct, trying to set them up on a false trail...but working for who exactly?

Before he could ruminate on this further, Murdoch interjected, still frowning.

"I don't see how, sir, either constable Higgins or myself has been around it the entire time since it's been opened."

Everyone's eyes snapped towards Henry.

"It wasn't me!" he exclaimed.

George knew his colleague was a bit desperate to prove himself lately but he wouldn't stoop so low or be that stupid. Besides he had little skill when it came to manipulating photographs, and judging by the little George could see, these were masterful forgeries and quite...provocative. What exactly did these papers say anyway? George was about to take a peek when Johnson spoke up next.

"There might be a more reasonable explanation, inspector." Everyone looked at him. "I've seen my fair share of safes in my day. I'm somewhat of an expert on them, if I do say so myself."

"Your point, Johnson?" growled the inspector.

"Might I take a look at this one?"

"By all means."

The group headed into Murdoch's office where the safe was sitting off to the side of his work table, so as not to be in the way of the laboratory equipment still set up.

Johnson looked at it for a second and said, "Ah, The Remington two hundred. Built much more for anti-theft than anti-fire. If any attempt at drilling is made, this iron bar will slide into place,"- he pointed- "here, and make it impossible to open, short of a building falling on top of it." He smirked, "Which I suppose _is_ what happened." The agent stuck his head into the darkened interior, said, "Fascinating," and quickly pulled out. "Could someone please turn off the lights?"

Henry hopped to it. Instantly a strange blue light emanated from the inside of the safe but only in one small portion of it.

_How amazing!_

"What the hell is that?" said Brackenreid, slightly awed.

"_That_, inspector, is called-"

"Scoria," said Murdoch quietly.

"Just so, detective," said Johnson turning towards him. "I'm surprised you know that, it's a rather obscure material, used for insulating a variety of things."

Even in the darkened room, George could tell the detective was grim looking.

"Let's just say I've had previous experience with it."

Suddenly George understood the detective's change in demeanour and he himself became grim. One night, many years ago, after they officially became family, he had shared a couple of spruce beers with Murdoch (terrible stuff but it was the only way to get him to drink) and the man had opened up about an incredible story that occurred while he and Julia had been bound to British Columbia in order to attend Jasper's wedding. While fascinating it had been almost unbelievable, which was saying something coming from him. He had a vivid imagination, but a giant robot entombed in concrete laced with Scoria that had been controlled by an old Italian man in a wheelchair who had used it to fire the monster's massive machine guns at him? The acting detective had thought his brother-in-law was drunk and just telling a tall tale.

In any case, if Murdoch was correct and this Scoria meant that The Black Hand was involved, heaven help them all.

Another thought came to him a second later. If The Black Hand _were_ involved, it meant this safe was theirs and the shooting had to be looked at entirely differently. Perhaps they had not been the targets after all?

"Sir, does this mean Beckett was the intended target?"

"Where the bloody hell did _that_ come from, Crabtree?"

Murdoch glanced at him in surprise at first but then smiled with apparent pride, his teeth gleaming dully in the semi-darkness. George returned it.

"That could take awhile to explain, sir," he said.

"Well, get started then! And will somebody turn on the goddamn lights!"

* * *

The papers turned out to be bills of sale for a large number of enterprises in and around the area. Some seemed legitimate enough and others were hard to fathom how they could have been obtained (though the compromising photographs were a bit of an indication). Quite a few of these blackmailed community leaders had co-signed with well to do Italian businessmen, handing over a significant amount of important property. Needless to say, there was little doubt in anyone's mind that The Black Hand was indeed involved in all of this.

The good news was that for once they had the upper hand on the criminal organization. With these documents at their disposal, the constabulary had solid proof that The Black Hand existed here, and that they were up to no good. All the constabulary would have to do is talk to these prominent members of the community, and if even one of them confessed to being blackmailed and/or threatened by The Black Hand, they had them.

Murdoch went home that night, happy in this knowledge but also very wary. His last encounter with them had almost cost him his life. Their Canadian leader, Mancini, had sworn to leave Murdoch alone on the condition that he didn't interfere in their plans again. These documents threw a rather large wrench into this promise. And if Murdoch was unsafe, what did that mean for his family?

So it was that Brackenreid had 'graciously' offered to post a constable outside all night. Normally Murdoch would have refused but in this case, he would have been foolish not to.

Though he was exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night, he could not get any more relief this night. Neither did his wife. They stayed up, intermittently watching over the children and the front door. The tension was palpable to the point of being unbearable.

Suddenly the phone rang, startling them out of their tormented stupor. He shared a look with his wife and then dragged his feet over to the receptacle.

The conversation was brief but even so, Murdoch was frowning before the end.

"What is it?" asked Julia coming over to him and placing a hand on his forearm. "What's happened?"

He hung up the phone as if in a daze and said matter of factly, "Our assassin has escaped and he's taken all the documents and the remaining TNT with him."

_Blast it!_

Murdoch would have been lying if he pretended that a part of him wasn't just a little relieved. Maybe now The Black Hand would simply disappear, like Beckett had?

_Fat chance._

* * *

**In case you didn't get it, I was making fun of myself with George's recap of one of my previous stories. It _was_ one of my more ridiculous notions, which is saying something considering I had _real_ time travel in one of them. :p**


	7. Mansion on Fire

By the time Murdoch got down to the station house on his bicycle, his mind was razor sharp. The chill April air and a large amount of coffee had seen to that quite thoroughly. The detective was dreading what he might find once he went inside. Inspector Brackenreid had been rather vague about the specifics.

As he entered the precinct, he caught sight of the desk sergeant sitting on the bench nearby holding a cold compress to the back of his head. Murdoch gave him a brief reassuring smile and the elderly man returned it. Further in he came across the two guards that had been stationed to watch over the prisoner, (one in the holding room, the other outside by the side door) Masterson looking the worse for wear. The constable was all beat up, and almost looked as bad as the assassin had after Brackenreid had 'talked' to him. Beneath the bruising, his eyes and surrounding area were very red, as if he had been crying and rubbing them a lot.

_Curious._

The other night constable that Murdoch could never seem to remember the name of looked perfectly unharmed, save for having a very red neck, the sort of thing one tends to get when an assailant puts them in a sleeper hold.

Things could have been significantly worse. They could have all been dead. For whatever reason, this black hand agent had spared their lives, going against the usual style of that dastardly organization. Perhaps the man had been hesitant to kill police officers? It didn't seem likely though because the assassin had had the eyes of a soulless monster. Whatever the reason was, Murdoch was just glad that no one had been fatally wounded.

"How are you faring, constables?"

"Been better, sir," said Masterson stiffly, wincing each time his mouth opened and closed.

"Thankfully we weren't hurt worse than we were," said the other constable.

"Indeed. I am glad. Do either of you require medical attention?"

This meant bringing his wife down here and away from their children. Probably would be nearly impossible after the events that happened this night.

"We'll live," said Masterson.

The detective smiled slightly. "I don't doubt it but-"

Murdoch was interrupted by a loud commotion coming from the Inspectors office. Brackenreid was yelling into the telephone and was more agitated than usual.

"...to hell! It's not our goddamn faults!"

With that he slammed the receiver into the receptacle and nearly broke the thing. He glared at it for several seconds and then caught them staring at him. Then he barged out and over to them.

"Goddamn wanker! Thinks he knows everything!"

"Who are you talking about, sir? Johnson?"

Brackenreid looked at him like he was an idiot. The detective knew he would need to hash things out with the inspector when this whole catastrophe was over. If he left this boil intact, it would just grow bigger and uglier over time. Better to lance it sooner than later.

"No, of course not bloody Johnson!" he hollered, making a furious hand gesture. "Bloody Giles! He made a goddamn wise crack about faulty locks again! The bastard is never going to quit with that bollocks! Why can't he just let bygones be bloody bygones?!"

Murdoch cleared his throat hoping to stop him before he said something he really regretted. The constables were right there and though they likely had their own suspicions about what happened in 1898, they didn't know for sure that their superiors were actually guilty of a crime and Murdoch wanted to keep it that way.

"_What_?" snapped the inspector. "If you have something to say, just goddamn say it Murdoch!"

Brackenreid was difficult to deal with at the best of times and when he was tired and frustrated, (and mad at him) all bets were off.

"Perhaps we should focus on the more salient point right now, sir. That is, determining what exactly happened here."

"Fine!" He cocked his head. "Oye, Sanders! Get the hell over here!"

The old man, who must have been close to his seventies by now, heeded the command as fast as his failing strength could move him.

"So, who the bloody hell can tell me how _three_ experienced policemen managed to get knocked out by _one_ goddamn prisoner...who was _locked _up?!"

_When he was being escorted to the washroom, perhaps?_

There had been several instances of prisoners trying to make a break for it using this tactic. Very few had been successful though and because of these attempts they always handcuffed everyone before they were allowed to exit their cell. It would be hard to take out three policemen while shackled, especially for a man in poor condition.

The constables shared a look between them.

"It wasn't the prisoner that attacked us, sir," said the constable he couldn't remember the name of. "Well, not me and Sanders anyway."

"What the bloody hell do you mean? Who was it then?"

"We don't know, sir," said the same constable. "None of us saw their face."

"Explain," was all an increasingly annoyed Brackenreid could get out.

"Well, sir," said Sanders, "I was reading the paper and then the next thing I knew, there was a blinding pain and I blacked out."

"As for me, sir," said the other constable, "I was standing watch and..."

The man was a bit embarrassed suddenly.

"And what?" yelled the inspector.

"Two pretty ladies walked by and I went over to talk to them."

What he probably meant to say were women of the night. Having to work his share of night shifts as a new recruit, Murdoch was well accustomed to them. He had even become quite close to one of them, almost past the point that propriety allowed. It seemed like forever ago, a different life altogether, as if it were written by someone else.

"When I headed back, someone came up behind me and I struggled something fierce but they overwhelmed me."

"And you?" barked Brackenreid to Masterson, "what's your story? Judging by the state of your face, you should have gotten a goddamn look at him!"

Masterson shook his head once slowly and Murdoch suspected, as fast as he _could _given his current state.

"I heard a noise out front, what I now know to be Sanders collapsing, so I popped my head out of the holding cell area. I didn't see anything amiss though and just assumed he had gone upstairs to relieve himself."

"The brains on this one!" snarled the inspector. "Did I not warn you geniuses to be extra vigilant tonight?! You're goddamn lucky to be alive!"

The other two hung their heads but not Masterson. "Anyway," he continued, hiding his annoyance well, "I went back to my post and all was quiet for a little while. Suddenly the door barged open and I felt a terrible stinging in my eyes. Whoever it was, must have sprayed me with something before I could get a good look. I tried to fight him anyway but he just kept punching me in the face. Eventually he got a really good whack in and I collapsed. Next thing I knew, the cell door was open and the prisoner was gone."

A brief silence ensued. Brackenreid stormed back to his office, calling Murdoch to join him.

"What do you make of their stories?"

"Clearly whoever broke Mr. Doe out of jail, didn't desire us to know their identity. They went to great pains to conceal it." He paused for a second and the inspector just glared at him. "This would suggest that we are familiar with the culprit. Possibly it is even someone we've recently become acquainted with."

Brackenreid whistled low. "You think one of those Pinkerton bastards is behind this? That one of them is actually working for The Black Hand?"

"It is a possibility," he conceded, nodding once. "But there are many others who could have done this."

"That's not likely though, is it?" said Brackenreid, beginning to smile in a bit of a frightening way.

"Actually sir, it could be." The inspector's twisted smile vanished. "If we examine this situation thoroughly we'll notice several discrepancies."

"Such as?" grunted his boss, crossing his arms, as if his Christmas presents had just been taken away from him.

"None of our men were killed. As you well know, The Black Hand isn't usually so accommodating. Furthermore, the fact that they felt the need to conceal their identity puzzles me. If we really were dealing with The Black Hand, wouldn't they have simply sent someone else to do this job? Why risk exposing themselves by sending a high priority agent within The Pinkertons or even their own organization?" Brackenreid's scowl was exceeding his own. "No, something isn't adding up here."

The inspector looked to be a hairs breadth away from throttling someone. Unconsciously, Murdoch took a step backwards. When his boss next spoke, it was surprisingly calm and rational (albeit through gritted teeth) and the detective couldn't help but marvel at it.

"But who _other_ than The Black Hand would want to steal those bloody documents _and_ release one of their henchmen?"

Murdoch shook his head and repeated something he had said earlier that day, something he hated admitting out loud. "I haven't the foggiest, sir." Catching his eye, "But I intend to find out."

* * *

George got into bed with his wife after he had personally made sure their mansion was secure and that his guards were stationed where they were supposed to be. Needless to say, it had taken awhile but he wasn't going to take any chances, not when The Black Hand was involved. George tried to give her a kiss goodnight. Since she had already been sleeping, he assumed this would be an easy task. He was mistaken. Somehow she still knew what he was trying to do and turned away from him. His frustration and guilt over what he had done to them financially propelled his lips to finally speak the truth. Unfortunately, before he even uttered two words, their three year old daughter, Holly, began calling for them, intermittently.

They had servants who could look after this but George considered it his right and more than that, his duty to be involved in all aspects of child rearing. Ever since he discovered he was a foundling from his adopted parents, he had made this vow to himself should he ever have children. Ruby had not been pleased at having to do something she didn't have to do but she had understood his reasoning and allowed it. So it was that the servants had been instructed to not interfere unless expressly asked to, or if neither one of them was home.

"I'll take care of it," he said wearily, wanting nothing more than to get some rest.

Ruby said nothing but he knew that she was fully awake. Even she could not sleep through such incessant calls. As George slowly ambled to their child's room across the hallway, he couldn't help but wonder at his wife's silence. Usually it was difficult to get her to stop talking. He would have preferred her to yell at him, than absolutely nothing. If this was the result after what he perceived to be a small slight, he dreaded to think of the outcome to his big reveal.

The noise was still going strong by the time he pushed the door open. Holly was propped up against her pillows, holding the blanket up to her chin, looking terrified.

Instantly George became alert and scanned the room for intruders. There was no one. He let out a breath and went over to her side, sitting down on the bed.

"Daddy!" she cried, grabbing him.

"What is it darling, what's wrong?"

"They were twying to get me!"

"Who?!" said George loudly, nervously.

She buried her face into his chest.

"Who?!" he prompted again. "Who was trying to get you, Holly?!"

"The," -she made a noise, -"bzzz."

His tired mind had to think for a second. "Bees? Is that what you are saying Holly?"

She nodded against him and he relaxed once more. His daughter had simply been having a nightmare. Occasionally it involved large bees or wasps trying to sting her. He knew there weren't actually any in her room because it was far too cold for that.

"It's okay, darling, nothing's going to hurt you. It was just a bad dream." George kissed the top of her head and lowered her into her bed, tucking her in. "Now go back to sleep and I bet you'll only have lovely dreams about princesses and butterflies."

Holly was resisting him. "Tell me the stowry."

"Again?" he said dourly. "Haven't you heard it enough times already?"

"Tell me the stowry!" she exclaimed, slapping her blankets.

"All right, all right."

George cleared his throat and wished he had a glass of water when it remained quite dry. "Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden trapped up in a tower. A dashing young prince happened upon her one day. It was love at first sight. With the help of his two good friends, the prince was able to rescue the fair maiden. The journey back to the prince's castle was long and she was not dressed for the outdoors so he offered her his cape and-"

"That's not how I recall the story," said his wife from behind him.

"Mommy!" she squealed, reaching out for her.

He turned to look at her and she smirked faintly. "I believe it was actually William who gave me the coat."

"_Ruby_."

She walked over to their child and gave her a hug telling her to go to sleep. Within seconds Holly complied.

"Why does that never work for me?" he pouted as they exited the room.

"Because, George, you let her take advantage of you. Children can sense when there's a strong presence in the room."

"I have a strong presence!" he said making a face.

"Not when it comes to her, you don't. You spoil her rotten."

"As if you're one to talk!" he burst out in hushed tones. "You bought her that expensive dress just last week!"

"Do you really want to pick a fight? I thought you desired to end our current one?"

George opened his mouth and then nodded wearily. "You're right I do." He hesitated a moment, "But there's something else-"

There was a knock at their door. They shared a look. Hers was of mild interest, his was of trepidation.

They went over to the top of the balustrade and glanced down as their servant, Samuels, answered the door. At the last second, George wanted to shout at him to stop but it was too late, the door had been opened, leaving them completely exposed to whatever terror lay on the other side.

"I need to speak with the lady of the house," came an unknown woman's voice, rather abruptly.

"I'm sorry, ma'am but she has retired for the night. Maybe if you try again tomorrow-"

"There might not _be_ a tomorrow," she said insistently.

Samuels didn't respond immediately and Ruby spoke up, George's own curiousity stopped him from clamping a hand over her mouth.

"It's okay, Samuels, I'm awake. Let her in."

Samuels stepped aside and a red haired woman stood before them looking up. Ruby had already half descended the large staircase and he scrambled to catch up. When he was closer, he took a good look at the woman and froze. It was Beckett!


	8. Once Upon a Fire

Murdoch checked the contents of the scrutiny camera to see if it had been tripped. It had not. But even if they hadn't already known that they were dealing with a professional, that in and of itself would not have meant much. This was because every station house had a scrutiny camera, (excepting station five, which still held a grudge against Murdoch for doing his job all those years ago) even the newly minted station six. As such, word had gotten around and criminals were wary to these tricks.

So Murdoch had adapted. He had planted a much smaller, more advanced secondary scrutiny camera in a hidden location and had told no one, not Julia or the inspector, and certainly not George. Though the detective loved him as only one can love their family, he knew that his brother-in-law had a big mouth. The last thing he needed was George telling his wife and it ending up in the paper!

As of yet, there had been no use for it whatsoever. No one had been foolhardy enough to break into a police station with policemen present! Gone were the days when they could afford to only have men on duty for day and evening shifts. Crime was at an all time high and someone now had to be there at all times in case of emergency, especially when they had a dangerous criminal locked up.

So it was rather unprecedented that someone (or more than one) could have managed to bypass all their security measures!

_Hopefully all but one_, thought Murdoch as he discreetly removed the camera from its hiding place.

The inspector was on the phone again and by his tone, that is to say, that nothing could be heard, he was likely talking to his wife. The constables had been sent home for rest and recuperation. So it was easy enough for Murdoch to smuggle the device into his dark room unnoticed. This continued use of caution was simply because if this didn't yield any results, there was no point in potentially ruining his secret weapons effectiveness.

He checked the negatives quickly, to see if anything was there at all before he bothered to develop any photographs.

Yes! There was something! Or rather, someone!

Murdoch smiled in a self satisfied way as he began the process of revealing their culprit.

* * *

"Miss Beckett!" exclaimed George, "What are you doing here!" She glanced at him in apparent amusement. Then he remembered something important.

He advanced a few steps towards her in his custom made Lost Pharaohs pyjamas before his wife stopped him. "George Crabtree, what on earth are you doing?"

Looking over his shoulder he said, "My job! She's a criminal!"

Rather than be afraid, Ruby seemed positively giddy. "You don't say?" She glanced at the woman. "And you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, I need to speak with the press before it's too late,"- she glanced at George, "no offence but I don't trust the police," - looking back at Ruby, "and I hear you're the best."

Ruby gave her a very warm smile. "Do come in to the parlour and we'll have a little chat."

"Thank you," Beckett said, returning the smile.

The women started to head over there and George came to his senses again. "Wait a minute! You can't do that! You have to come with me!"

Ruby turned to face him and looked him up and down. "Don't you think you ought to change first, George?"

"Yes," said Beckett making a face at his attire, "that seems like it's for the best."

"Just five minutes!" he exploded losing his patience with this absurd situation and their nonchalant behaviours. "And I will be present the entire time! No exceptions!"

"Suit yourself, dear," said Ruby as she waddled into the parlour room, with Beckett right behind her.

Within seconds his wife had a notepad and pen in hand and gestured for the confidence trickster to take a seat. They sat across from each other, with George off to the side but close at hand, ready to act if necessary.

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Beckett," said his wife, in a professional, yet eager manner.

"I suppose I should start from the beginning," said Beckett. Ruby nodded. "All right, so my real name is Deborah Curtis. I was born in Nebraska and grew up with a boy named Alexander Rodgers. Eventually we became lovers and decided we wanted more out of life than our little town had to offer. So we foolishly took up bank robbing."

"After two of these excursions, and nearly being caught both times, we decided it was best to skip town and try something less...obvious. We had heard about the great *George Parker's exploits so we began devising a scheme for our own more refined business ventures."

_ That's one way of putting it!_

"This scheme was very successful, but, let's face it, it was nothing in comparison to the masters. So we got bolder and bolder and as a consequence got noticed by the authorities...as well as another element."

_One guess who. I bet you couldn't wait to join them!_

"One day we received a threatening letter from an anonymous source. It said that it knew who we really were and what we were up to and if we didn't drop off five hundred dollars at a certain time in a certain location, something unfortunate could happen to us. We thought we were so smart and weren't about to fall for what we considered to be amateur hour. That night Alex's legs were broken."

The scratching from the pen stopped momentarily as the woman had stopped, apparently finding the memory painful.

"The men who did it said the price was now a thousand dollars and if we didn't pay this time, something regrettable would happen. As if broken bones were not enough. Naturally I paid them. We heard nothing for awhile and Alex was allowed to recuperate in peace. Then another letter arrived, this time demanding even more money. As you can imagine, we were in a bit of a quandary. If I went to the police and told them the story, we would be arrested. But if we continued to pay those bastards, they would never leave us alone. The only thing we could think to do was run. Of course, this was a bit difficult given Alex's current condition but I worked something out and we managed to get out of town."

Despite himself, he was feeling a bit badly for her.

"A few weeks later another letter arrived. And so it is that we've been on the run ever since. And not just from The Black Hand. We-"

He felt it necessary to interject here. "If you feared for your lives, why not just go to the police?"

She gave him an annoyed look for interrupting her narration, as did his wife. "As I told you before, I don't trust cops. There's no telling where The Black Hand has placed their agents. And besides, if we had, it would have been years before we saw each other again. Assuming one of us wasn't killed first. And neither of us could bear that."

"Go on," coaxed his wife. "My husband won't disturb you again." She stared at him sternly, "Isn't that right?"

George grumbled in response at the injustice of it all. This was his house too!

"Anyway, we crossed the border hoping they would leave us alone here but they still somehow managed to find us. We knew drastic measures had to be taken so we discovered the location of their base of operations here with the intent of stealing incriminating evidence from them and using it to blackmail them into leaving us alone."

_Quite the bold move! Insane, but bold!_

"We removed the safe to what we presumed to be a safe, random location where I could take my time cracking it." George gave her a questioning look and Curtis noticed. "I recognized the model earlier and knew I wouldn't be able to simply drill it. I was in the middle of gaining access when the fire started. Try as I might, I couldn't get in. I was out of practice and the safety measures were beyond my means."

As she had progressed with her story, she had become increasingly emotional and George couldn't help but be equally affected. However, a part of him was wondering just how true this tale really was. After all, weren't confidence tricksters known for just that; tricking people, manipulating them to their every whim?

"Alex tried to get me to leave but I was intent on getting what I came for. By the time he began forcibly removing me, the fire had weakened a substantial portion of the structure above us. A beam fell and he threw me out of the way but was trapped himself. Ironically it had pinned his legs down. It was at this point that I really took notice of our imminent peril. The entire building was coming down on us and the smoke was so thick I could barely see! Frantically I tried to move the beam but it wouldn't budge. He urged me to go, to save myself. I refused. He grabbed me and told me to stop being such a spoiled brat. Then he kissed me for the last time and passed out shortly after. I could barely breath as I crawled out of the basement and into the back lot. When I had caught my breath, I realized that I was crying."

Now George felt terrible for the lady, whether or not this version of events was true. Not only had she lost the love of her life but she had done so needlessly. The constabulary now had the damning documents in their possession and with any luck, The Black Hand would not be able to spread their pestilence any further.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Curtis," he said.

"Thank you," she replied quietly but with a voice full of emotion.

"And thank you for coming to me with this," said Ruby, reaching out to touch her knee. This gesture did not go as planned because of her large stomach and after several failed attempts she gave up. It would have been comical if the situation had not been so serious.

"Why did you, exactly?" asked George, trying to remain objective about this whole thing and not let himself be swayed by yet another woman as had happened in the past to both him and his mentor. "And for that matter, why did you come back?"

She gazed at him with slightly damp eyes. "I realized there was no point in running after The Black Hand tried to kill me. They would find me wherever I went. If I had forgotten that in my grief, it was made abundantly clear to me once more. Moreover, I owed it to Alex to see this thing through." The moisture vanished and her eyes became hardened. "One way or another, I was going to take them down. In the event that I failed...again...I wanted to make sure there was a public record of what we had gone through. I wanted, no _needed _people to understand that something had to be done about the menace that is The Black Hand. Too many people have already silently suffered at their hands. The terror has to end."

Curtis seemed sincere enough but whether it was the truth was anyone's guess. Still, the one undeniable fact remained, her lover _had_ been killed...or had he? George's avid imagination got the best of him and many wild theories started barraging his mind. What if _they_ had started the fire? What if Castle was still alive and they had only faked his death? What if the shooter really _had_ been working for Curtis? What if this _entire_ thing was all simply an elaborate ploy, just another con? If so, to what end?

Needless to say, his mind was reeling and it was only when he noticed them staring at him strangely that he thought it necessary to say something.

"I agree with you there," he said distractedly. "The Black Hand must be stopped."

_Holy crackers! What if The Black Hand isn't even part of this?!_

George could have demanded to know what was really going on, tried to force her to tell the truth but she would just deny everything, in either case. His only option was to try and smoke her true intentions out by sparking her interest.

If she had started the fire, and the safe was hers, she'd have known the documents would have remained untouched, leaving the constabulary to find them. This meant they were all fake and she didn't really have any interest in them at all, but was trying to set up the police for some reason. If she hadn't started the fire, there was the chance that her story really was true and she did indeed want those documents. If she now attempted to steal them, they would know that she was being honest, however bizarrely counter-intuitive that sounded.

At least, he thought all of that made sense, it was hard to be certain in his current state of mind. There was only one way to find out.

"Whatever you were looking for in the safe, we've got it."

Her head whipped to the side. "Got what exactly?"

"Things that will make it possible to take down The Black Hand."

She was silent for a bit. "Will you allow me to help you do this? Or will you be arresting me now?"

"I don't see why it couldn't be both."

"Well then," she said, holding her hands out and smiling slightly, "what are you waiting for?"

George was a bit taken aback. He thought for sure she would try to get out of being arrested. In any case, he absentmindedly patted his thigh, looking for his handcuffs, realized he was still wearing his pyjamas and understood her display. She knew they wouldn't be going anywhere until he was properly clothed. George called Samuels into the room.

"Keep an eye on her while I get dressed. If she so much as moves, holler."

He said it as much to his wife as their servant. Ruby shared a curious glance with him, rightly assuming that he was up to something.

George took his time getting into his constable's uniform, listening carefully for any commotion downstairs. When he was fully dressed and combed his hair several times and still hadn't heard anything, he began to get disappointed.

_So this means it was all just a big con? Castle is still alive?  
_

Annoyed at being made to look the fool, he made his way back to the parlour and the scene was very much the same as it was before. Curtis saw him and held out her hands again. George had no choice but to handcuff her. So he did.

* * *

Murdoch was just about to reveal their culprit when Brackenreid knocked on the dark room door.

"Murdoch, are you in there?"

"Yes, sir. Why do you ask?"

"I saw your bicycle was still here and wondered where you had disappeared to."

Had he detected a bit of concern in his bosses voice?

"Anyway, what the bloody hell are you doing?" the inspector said gruffly. "The camera didn't catch anyone!"

Murdoch didn't respond. He had just flipped the photograph over and couldn't believe his eyes.

"Murdoch?"

* * *

***sold the brooklyn bridge repeatedly to tourists over a 30 year period! Talk about ballsy!**


	9. The Flames Went Higher

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Brackenreid, staring wide eyed at the photograph.

"Yes," said Murdoch, "I too was surprised."

The detective was tapping his fingers on his desk while the inspector processed this shocking discovery.

_Will this never end_? he thought wearily, rubbing his face, trying to stay awake.

Not long after, George entered the precinct with none other than Beckett!

_Apparently not._

The acting detective seemed just as surprised to see them as they were to see him.

"Sirs?!"

"Crabtree!" barked Brackenreid as he stormed over to the unlikely pair. "What the goddamn hell-"

George put up a hand to stop him, something that his boss loathed.

"She came to my home. She's confessed her crimes. She's going away for a long time."

Murdoch had joined the group now, beyond confused.

"Wait a minute!" pipped up Beckett, "I thought you said I could help you take down The Black Hand?"

"Well, actually, it's not up to me, it's up to..."

George let the words die on his tongue when he saw the menacing expression before him. Even Murdoch was a little taken aback.

"That's not happening anymore," he growled in a low deep manner. "Somebody's gone and filched the documents."

"What?!" shrieked both of the new comers.

Brackenreid thrust the photograph into George's chest and he grabbed it awkwardly with his one free hand (the other was still holding on to Beckett).

"_This_ someone!" he snarled.

Murdoch sighed internally. He had been planning to break the bad news to his brother-in-law more compassionately, but as usual, the inspector had done things his abrupt way.

The detective cringed as George took a peek at the photograph and all the colour drained from his face.

"This is a joke, right?!" he said shrilly. George looked at him beseechingly, "You're just playing a joke on me! This _can't_ be real!"

"I'm afraid it_ is_ real, George," said Murdoch quickly, before Brackenreid could yell some more. "It appears that Jimmy is the one responsible for stealing the documents...and for releasing our prisoner."

"But I thought..." he said slowly. Suddenly he turned on Beckett, with fire in his eyes. "Tell me you're behind this somehow! I know this is all just part of your game! None of this is real!"

"Game?" she responded, blinking in her confusion. "Did you think...you thought I was trying to _con_ you?"

"That's what you _do_, isn't it?!" George retaliated loudly. "You trick people!"

Suddenly she was laughing and everyone was taken aback.

"See!" said George desperately. "This just proves it! She's having us on!"

"Is this true, Miss Beckett?" Murdoch asked, politely, even though the situation was very strange.

"No!" she uttered.

"Then why the bloody hell are you laughing!" shouted Brackenreid.

"Because," she burst out in between sounds of merriment, that the detective now realized had turned to sobs, "no matter what I do anymore, no one ever believes me! I'm like the boy who cried wolf! It's terribly amusing, don't you think?"

The policemen were silent while her sobbing laughter dissipated.

"All right!" said Brackenreid forcefully, snapping everyone out of their contemplations. "Regardless if she's telling the truth, we need to track down Jimmy! Thoughts?"

_Ironic._

"George," said the detective, "you've spent the most time with him during the last twenty four hours. Did he say anything to you that might indicate where he could have gone?"

His colleague was thoughtful for awhile. "No, sir," he said shaking his head, "nothing. We didn't spend a lot of time talking about ourselves, except for when..."

The acting detective's eyebrows shot up and his eyes bulged.

"For God sakes Crabtree! Spit it out!"

In barely more than a whisper he continued, "Except for when he mentioned how his wife was murdered...and that they never figured out who did it."

_How horrific! There are some real monsters out there nowadays and-_

"I think we know now," said Murdoch. "I think Jimmy was lying when he said he didn't know."

"The Black Hand destroys anyone who crosses their paths," said Beckett soberly. "You'd be wise to use extreme caution."

"Yes, thank you for that useful insight," grunted Brackenreid.

"But this doesn't make any _sense_!" objected George. "If Jimmy hated The Black Hand, why would he be _helping_ them?"

_Good point. Why didn't I think of that?_

"Clearly there are elements to this that we have yet to understand."

"So, I'll it say again, how the hell do we find him?"

George turned to Beckett, with an intense expression and said, "Where exactly did you steal the safe from?"

* * *

Murdoch had been expecting a dirty, seedy place like The Devil's Drum, but instead they had been directed to a fancy restaurant...and a family one at that! Mamma Mia was located in the heart of Little Italy, just a few blocks from The Clarke building and looked completely innocuous to the casual observer, even in the dead of night. Obviously that was the point.

Besides the three of them, Henry and a few other constables were stealthily approaching the restaurant. Though the lights were out, and he had yet to see any movement inside, even with the aid of his night vision goggles, Murdoch was sure there were people in there...assuming Beckett hadn't lied to them that is. The team broke off into triplets when they were closer, George and Perkins were with him and were going in the front entrance, whereas Brackenreid, Henry and Worseley were taking the back.

When they reached the door, Murdoch pulled out his skeleton key and easily gained access to the lion's den, strangely only feeling slightly better at his chances of survival this time than the last time he dealt with The Black Hand.

George and Perkins retrieved their flashlights but Murdoch could still see as if it were day. They did a quick sweep of the restaurant, finding no one, except for the second team coming out from the kitchen area.

They moved towards the stairs, where a faint light could be seen and nodding to each other, headed single file down them, Brackenreid in the lead. Before they got half way, the detective removed his special goggles because it had begun to get a bit too bright for his liking. The last thing he wanted to do was stumble down the stairs and ruin everything.

Voices could be heard behind the closed door at the end of them. However, they were not speaking in English and Murdoch could only pick out a word of Italian here and there that he actually understood. Silently, he translated as best he could.

"...finished..."

"Yes...right...over."

"...honour?"

Murdoch nodded to Brackenreid and then the inspector kicked down the door. Several men with guns raised whirled around to meet them as they filed into the basement.

"Police!" shouted Brackenreid, holding his shotgun aloft. "Drop your weapons!"

The men did not budge an inch until a man holding a billiards cue stick looked up in a bored way and ordered them to. A clattering of guns instantly resulted. Now Murdoch could focus on other things, and he glanced around the nicely furnished basement, complete with billiards table (where a game was underway), comfy sofas, Persian rug, and a bar on the far side. There was also a large picture frame that Murdoch assumed was covering up a slightly smaller whole in the wall, where the safe had been stored. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen and since there was only one entrance into this den, the detective knew the man was not here.

_Confound it!_

Staring at the inspector, the bored looking Italian said, "Would you be so kind as to inform me and my associates what the reason is for this uncalled for disruption of our game?" Gesturing to the table, "As you can see, I am on the verge of winning and am eager to do so."

Murdoch thought the man had probably never been excited in his life.

"We know you have Jimmy!" burst out George, inciting an annoyed glare from the inspector. "So where is he?"

"Jimmy?" he said, setting his sights on the table again. "I don't know a Jimmy. "James, yes. I know a few James'." He lined up a shot and took it. "Perhaps that is who you mean?" He missed his mark and scowled.

"Cut the bollocks!" snapped Brackenreid. "We know he's been working for you! For The Black Hand!"

The Italian shook his head slowly. "You barge into my place of business, pointing six guns at me no less, and accuse me of the most heinous things. If I were to inform your superiors of these actions and this unfounded accusation, you could get into a lot of trouble."

_If he's threatening us, it might mean that he's a little scared of what we know. They may not have the documents in their possession yet!_

"So, either provide this supposed proof you have of my wrong doing, or leave."

Brackenreid and George seemed to have no intention of complying so he lowered his pistol first and then spoke up. "Sir, he's right. We don't have a warrant. We need to go. Now."

"Goddamn it!" the inspector muttered, lowering his own weapon. "Come on lads!"

All of the constables followed suit, except for George. Brackenreid grabbed his shotgun out of his hands. "Let's _go_ Crabtree! Don't make me drag you out!"

George glared at all of them a moment longer and then did as he was told.

Murdoch caught the smug smirk of the Italian right before they exited the basement.

_This is far from over. Just you wait._

* * *

With no other clues as to where Jimmy could have gotten to with the documents, they gained access to his room at The Fairmont to search for some. What they found was rather disturbing. Besides the escaped assassin, unconscious and tied to a chair, an entire wall had been covered with names and some photos of various different Italian men. Below some of these, there were descriptions of their occupations and other details about their personal lives. It was displayed in a pyramid pattern with what Murdoch could only assume to be the head man at the top. Really though, there was no need for assumption because of the name (there was no photo).

_Mancini. I thought you'd be dead by now._

Needless to say, this strange display made things even more confusing.

"Oh my socks!" muttered George. "This looks like a hit list!" Getting a puzzled look, "But I thought he was helping them?"

_Maybe a bit of both?_

"As I said before, we don't really know what is going on."

"Well, let's bloody well figure it out then! I'm bloody tired of this goddamn case! Hell, I'm just bloody tired!"

_Aren't we all._

George opened a drawer and pulled out another photograph. He studied it for a few seconds with a pained expression across his face.

"What is it, George?"

"Wendy, I believe, his wife." The acting detective's face lit up. "Sirs! I think I know where he has gone!"

* * *

They did some digging through the public records and discovered the house Jimmy had shared with his wife over five years ago. Apparently Jimmy had never sold the property after her murder because no new owner was listed. It was on the Indian reservation some miles from the station house in a quiet little corner of the world. The structure was still standing but it was in disarray because no one had lived there in all that time. Guns at the ready, they barged in, ready for anything.

Jimmy looked up in surprise from his spot on a worn out chair. For a moment no one spoke.

"You can't be here!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "You must go! Right now!"

"_I'll_ be giving the orders here, sunshine!" barked Brackenreid. "And I'm ordering you to come with us!"

"No, I can't!" he declared. "Not yet!"

"Jimmy!" intoned George emotionally. "Why are you doing this? Why have you betrayed everyone?"

"There's no time to explain!" shouted Jimmy, moving towards them, without even a trace of a limp, physically trying to push them out the door. Brackenreid dropped his shotgun and tried to grab the man. Jimmy dodged easily enough and kicked the inspector in the shin, hard.

"Bloody hell lad!" he growled, hopping around like a buffoon, holding his foot. "You'll pay for that!"

Jimmy was clearly intent on pushing the inspector backwards and out of his house but George got in his way. The two men struggled for a bit but Jimmy easily got the upper hand and knocked the acting detective back. George hit a wall and slid down it, clutching the back of his head.

Jimmy advanced on Murdoch next. The moonlight reflected off of his eyes in such a way as to expose the wild desperation there. The detective had seen that look in men before, but none had ever been so striking as the time he saw it in his own wife's eyes, when they feared they would lose their son to a madman. Suddenly Murdoch thought he understood everything.

Jimmy was almost upon him when he said, "She's not dead, is she?"

His assailant abruptly stopped moving. "What did you say?" he snapped.

"Your wife, Wendy. She's not dead. That's why you are doing all of this."

Grabbing a hold of his arm he said, "And that's why I need you all to leave! Right this instant! They will be here any minute now!"

Brackenreid and George had collected themselves by this point and were sharing a look. Murdoch would have tried to reason with Jimmy, tell him that he couldn't trust The Black Hand and hand over the incriminating documents as a trade for his wife (whom Murdoch suspected was indeed dead, no matter what they had told him in order to get him on their side) but the man would already know that the chances of his survival in this encounter were not high, (especially considering he was unarmed) and when a man was as far gone from logic as Jimmy was, there would be little point. So without further ado, Murdoch hit him in the head with the end of his pistol, eliciting exclamations from his colleagues, and then Jimmy collapsed.

"Well, let's get out of here," said Murdoch much more calmly than he felt. "Before The Black Hand decides to arrive. I have a feeling they will be far less accommodating than the last bunch."

The detective stuck his pistol back within his inside coat pocket. "Which of you will help me carry him?"


	10. Simmer Down

They had put Jimmy behind bars for his questionable actions but also for his own good. As soon as he regained consciousness he had screamed and cursed at them for a full ten minutes. Eventually the loud noises subsided and only faint sobbing could be heard instead.

George had stared at the holding cell door the entire time, looking as though he was experiencing the same pain and mental anguish his friend was. Several times the acting detective had tried to go in there to speak with him, but every time he had tried, either Murdoch or Brackenreid had held him back. They told him that Jimmy needed to get it all out of his system before there was any chance of having a reasonable conversation with him.

The policemen still needed to re-acquire the documents that Jimmy had hidden. They had done a cursory search before hurriedly leaving the Indian reservation but had been unable to find them. Apparently Jimmy _had_ had slightly more common sense than Murdoch had first thought.

Once the sobbing had dissipated too, the three coppers entered the holding cell area. Jimmy was sitting on the floor and would not look at any of them.

"I know how he feels," muttered Beckett as they passed by.

Taking turns, they tried to get his attention. All their efforts were for naught.

Brackenreid lost his patience, opened the cell door and bodily grabbed Jimmy up, demanding to know what he had done with the documents. Jimmy would not respond. His eyes had glazed over and he seemed to be almost catatonic.

"Sir," said Murdoch calmly, "that isn't going to work. He's too far gone."

"Like hell he is!" snarled the inspector, cocking his fist.

"Sir!" exclaimed George. "Please leave him be!"

"I'm sure we can discover the location of the documents without Jimmy's help."

"Goddamn it! Fine!" he barked, tossing Jimmy onto the bed. Brackenreid slammed the door shut and said, "Well then, Murdoch, let's hear these brilliant ideas."

* * *

After hours of searching and still not uncovering their location, it was time to take another crack at Jimmy. The men were beyond tired and George felt like a zombie, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. George asked if he could speak with Jimmy alone, reasoning that maybe Jimmy would be more receptive to a friend...assuming he still counted George as one. It was worth a try, so they left them alone (and went to go have a nap before the day shift arrived).

Jimmy appeared to be more with it again because he had moved from his sprawled position on the bed and was back sitting on the floor. This time he was facing the other holding cell and seemed to be paying attention to a softly speaking Curtis, who had pushed her bed aside and was squatting on the floor, so that she could maintain eye contact with Jimmy.

George approached them apprehensively, (fiddling with his helmet all the while) but also appreciative of Curtis' efforts. Though he assumed she was attempting to break through to him more for herself and her own vengeance than for anything else.

"How goes it?"

She glanced up at him. "Poorly I'm afraid." She stood up and moved towards the front of her cage. "I've been speaking to him for the past hour and all I've managed to do is get him to look at me. He still has yet to say a single word."

"Listen Jimmy," he said after opening the cell door and sitting down beside him, "I know you're probably still very hurt and angry right now but if you think about it, I mean _really_ think about, we acted no differently than you did. We only did what we thought was right. The Black Hand don't make deals with people. They only use them. There is no give and take. You must know that. Whatever they promised you...the freedom to be with your wife again...unfettered from their restraints...deep down you must know that was all simply a lie. You must have known that they would have just killed you once they had gotten what they wanted."

A disturbing thought came to George then. "You did know, didn't you? You _wanted_ them to kill you."

For the first time Jimmy made eye contact. "Not exactly, George."

"What do you mean?" asked a puzzled George.

Jimmy sighed. He next spoke in an emotionless, droning narration. "I was led to believe that they had faked Wendy's death five years ago...they had left a letter by a pool of blood, saying that they had taken her hostage. If I told anyone, they would kill her. If I didn't become a double agent for them, they would kill her. I discreetly had the blood tested and it was proven to be bovine. For five years I have helped tip them off when the police or The Pinkertons were getting suspicious of their actions. I was forced to do...other things that I'm not proud of.

"Recently I had come to the conclusion that they would continue to string me along forever if I let them. So I decided to take the situation into my own hands and began plotting against them. I had intended to simply...take out however many I could but that would have accomplished nothing. I abandoned that idea and when those documents were found, I came up with a new plan.

"Using the information I gleaned from one of their henchmen, I contacted another one of them who could in turn contact someone higher up, who in turn would contact their leader, Mancini. Next I hid the documents. Then I lay in wait at our old house. If they hadn't killed Wendy by then, they would bring her along and make the trade. In that case, we would have left together and then I would have informed them of the location of the documents. If Wendy...was already dead...then I wouldn't tell them the location and I would have gotten to see her anyway." He broke down, crying again, hugging George fiercely. "I'm so tired of being strong, George. I just couldn't do it anymore."

The acting detective was devastated by his friends account of events but he did his best not to let it show. It was Jimmy's turn to give in to his emotions, and George's duty to keep Jimmy sane.

"I know Jimmy," he said patting his back, "I know. We'll bring those responsible to justice. I promise."

Jimmy pulled away from him and wiped his face clean with the back of his sleeve. "I've buried the documents in an unmarked location. I will give you the exact coordinates now." George had yet to respond. "You might want to get a pen out."

* * *

With the documents in hand again, they immediately began bringing in those with their names on them. They had to coordinate with the other station houses because there were so many culprits and because station four's men were in need of some serious rest. While George slept for twelve hours straight, the constabulary was hard at work, hopefully putting together a case so strong, so monumental, that The Black Hand would be erased from Toronto's history forevermore.

* * *

When George next awoke, it was dark once more and his daughter was sound asleep. After giving her a kiss on the forehead, he headed to the parlour room, half expecting to find Curtis back there, telling silly stories to his wife. George physically shook his head to clear his groggy thoughts.

"Ah, you're awake," said Ruby off to the side in a high backed chair. He walked a few paces to get her in sight better. She put her book down and continued, "I was starting to think you had died."

George cringed at her bad joke.

Her smile faltered and she held out a hand that he took. "I'm sorry, George. That was very insensitive of me. I know you've had a trying time of things lately."

"You do?"

"Yes, of course, it's been all over the paper."

He glanced at the latest Gazette edition on the table in front of her. Her name was listed as the author of the groundbreaking article. This simply served to make him even more confused.

"How did you-"

"I was a reporter long before I met you, George. I _do_ still have other sources and ways of obtaining information."

"Speaking of..." said George slowly, sitting down across from her. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you for quite some time." She seemed vaguely intrigued. "I don't know how else to say this so I'll speak plainly." He paused for a second and avoided her gaze at all costs. "I regret to inform you that-"

"You've gone and lost most of our money."

George gaped at her and she smiled faintly.

"How did you-"

"Like I said, George, I have my ways."

Suddenly something dawned on him. "So _that's_ why you were ignoring me! Isn't it? Not because I didn't tell you about the fire!"

She nodded once.

Again George was puzzled. "But then why did you forgive me so easily?" He scrutinized her blank expression for a second. "Or have you?"

Ruby heaved herself up and took a spot beside him on the sofa. She took his hand again.

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't still a bit mad at you, after all,"- she gestured towards the grand hall,- "I'm accustomed to a certain level of luxury. It's all I've ever known. And now you've put that into jeopardy with your stock market nonsense." He was going to speak but she raised a hand to stop him. "Yes, I know that is how you obtained your fortune in the first place, but seriously, George, you should have called it quits ages ago. You had amassed far more wealth than I had inherited. I never thought you capable of such greed."

He removed his hand from hers. "It wasn't greed that made me keep playing the market."

"Then what?" she replied, apparently surprised that her assessment was incorrect.

"I was doing it for the children. I was trying to make sure their futures would be secure forever. I never wanted them to want for anything...ever." He hung his head and sighed. "And now I've gone and done just that."

She placed a hand to his face and he closed his eyes leaning into her touch. "I don't believe that for a second. And neither should you. You can still fix this. And you don't even need to go back to the stock markets."

"But how?"

"I seem to recall a certain someone going on and on about an idea he's had for the past ten years."

Incredulously, "The canned meat? Really, Ruby? You would be okay with investing most of our remaining fortune in that?"

"I have faith in you, George. You'll come through for your family. You have to." She smirked, "Or I'll leave you."

"_Ruby_."

"I'm just kidding of course."

They shared a look and then a few kisses. She yawned and then said she was tired so he helped her up from her seat and over to the elevator he had installed the first time Ruby had gotten pregnant and complained about all the stairs. Once she was encased within their sheets, he got dressed in his constables uniform and headed down to the station.

* * *

Though it was after nine, the precinct was bustling with activity, constables were escorting people all over the place and none of them were too happy judging by all the racket they were producing. George didn't see the inspector or detective amongst the masses so he checked the interview room. Sure enough, both of them were in there, one to play the good cop, the other the reverse. The man they were currently talking to was not an Italian and likely not part of The Black Hand. He was just some sweating, overweight toff by the looks of things. George flashed back to a provocative photograph and made the connection.

Brackenreid pulled out his black gloves and the man literally squealed and started spilling his guts. George had been to the abattoir enough times to be vividly reminded of a stuck pig. He hadn't eaten anything since awakening and was glad since the image made him sick to his stomach.

Things were more or less wrapped up there so he decided to head to the holding cell area, but before he got half way, he saw that same Italian from the restaurant being brought in by two constables. They were not touching him at all, most likely because the man had already acquired himself a lawyer.

The fat toff was led out by a constable at the same point that the Italian was brought into the the side hallway. He cowed at the sight and tried to make himself smaller, as if that was possible. The Italian didn't even spare one look at him.

George moved back to the observation window, keenly interested in the following proceedings.

The lawyer spoke first, "My client has nothing to say to you. And unless you provide some solid evidence against him, right this instant, we will be leaving."

Brackenreid slammed some papers onto the table. The lawyer took one look at them, became vaguely startled, gave his client the smallest of accusatory glances and then morphed into his slimy self again.

"So he's had several dealings with local businessmen, so what?"

"We have witnesses claiming these deals were acquired under extreme duress," said Murdoch. "Threatening of families, threatening of self, broken bones...you get the picture. We also know that he was involved in multiple murders."

"Murder? Now hold on a minute, that is quite the leap! Have you any proof of such claims?"

"Indeed we do," continued Murdoch, nodding. "Admittedly, they are not tied to these deals, but I assure you the claims are just as valid. We have in our custody two witnesses who have personally suffered at the hand of Mr. Mancini."

_Mancini?_ thought George confusedly, _I thought he was an old man?_

Then it dawned on him. _Oh, he must be the son._

Mancini's eyes flashed towards Murdoch's for a second.

"That's right, sunshine, we've got you."

Murdoch smiled and gestured to the documents on the table. "These, as well as many others, were stolen from you on the night of April 19th. Shortly after that, Toronto experienced a devastating fire. It is our belief that your client was responsible for this destruction, in an attempt to re-acquire them, knowing that they would do even more damage to himself if they ended up in the wrong hands. A man was killed as a result of this fire." Mancini smiled but said nothing. "Furthermore, there is another who had his wife unjustly taken from him. She was supposedly kidnapped five years ago at the behest of your client, in an effort to obtain the favours of a troublesome detective within The Pinkerton agency." Murdoch shared a look with Mancini who was still pleasantly smiling. George wanted to go in there and knock him upside the head, a sentiment the inspector seemed to be sharing, judging by his sour expression. "We both know that you have not held her hostage for all this time."

The lawyer spoke again. "I fail to see the evidence you claimed to have. So far all you have done is given me wild theories and conjectures. Unless your witnesses saw my client physically kill these people, I'm afraid that you have nothing on him. Therefore, we will be going."

He half stood up to leave and Brackenreid barked at him. "Sit down! You'll leave when I say so!"

George knew that this was going to go on for a long time, a very long time, so instead of standing through the tedious back and forth, he made his way to the holding cells.

There had been an overflow of suspects in the last half day and as a result, Jimmy and Curtis had been moved into the same cell and five other gentlemen had been crammed into the other. The former pair saw him enter and stood up as he approached.

"How are you two faring?"

"Better," they both said almost simultaneously. They shared an appreciative smile.

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied, smiling back.

"I can't tell you how thrilled I am that The Black Hand is finally getting their just desserts. Alex would be harassing the gentlemen next door to us, but well, I'm more refined than that."

He nodded once. After hesitating a second he said, "Listen Jimmy-"

"It's all right, George, I know what you're going to say." His friend grimaced. "I lost her a long time ago. Deep down I always knew that but just couldn't accept it."

Curtis put a hand to his shoulder and he put his on top of hers.

"But now that I know for sure, I really can move on with my life." He smirked. "Well, after I'm released from jail in ten years."

George blanched at that comment. "I don't think-"

"I've told them everything, George. Every low down thing I ever did for The Black Hand."

"Jimmy," he said cautiously, almost timidly, "did you ever-"

"No, I never killed anyone." He closed his eyes in a pained way. "But I came close a few times."

There was an awkward lull and then since George didn't know what to say to that, he simply left.

* * *

A few days later, when things had calmed down some, Murdoch got to talking to his boss, in an effort to try and clear the air between them. It took a lot of finagling but eventually Brackenreid came around to his way of thinking, that he could on occasion be a little harsh with his men and he would try to watch his tongue a bit more from now on. Once that was over and done with, they discussed the case some more.

"Do you know what the TNT was for, Murdoch?"

"Not definitively, sir, but I have my suspicions based on the little their men have said. I believe they were planning to use it for high impact bullets."

"Bullets?" said Brackenreid surprised.

"The TNT can be melted down and poured into them, in place of gunpowder. Upon contact, these bullets are devastating."

Brackenreid chuckled. "I wasn't aware that regular bullets needed to be improved upon."

"Well, sir, as you know, they were buying up property all over the city, trying to get a monopoly in order to rule it with an iron fist. Whoever they couldn't blackmail into signing over the property needed to be bought outright. Killing them would have done them no good because they needed the bill of sale for it to be official. So, they needed funding and the easiest way to procure a lot of money in a pinch is to steal it from armoured waggons. Those kind of bullets would have pierced right through the armour, making this task simpler still."

Brackenreid whistled lowly. "Bloody hell. That would have been a blood bath."

"Indeed, sir. Which is fortunate that they were stopped beforehand."

"Too bad we didn't manage to prevent them from starting the fire as well."

Murdoch gave him a look. "Actually, sir, I don't believe that they did, nor do I believe it would have been beneficial to have prevented the fire."

"What the bloody hell do you mean?" he asked incredulously.

"We've interviewed dozens of men, none of them claim to have anything to do with starting it." Brackenreid opened his mouth to interject but Murdoch just continued, "I believe them. At this point, they have no reason to lie. Besides, I never did find any evidence of foul play."

"So you think it was all just a big accident? That the fire chief was right all along?"

"Oh it was no accident, sir." Again, his boss tried to say something and again he didn't allow it. "I believe it was an act of divine providence, designed to help us uncover all of this and put a stop to The Black Hand's plans for Toronto."

"You don't really believe that do you, Murdoch?"

"Indeed I do, sir."

"Well then, God sure has a round about way of helping."

Murdoch smiled. "Yes, but the important point is that he _is_."

_ I can believe that again._

* * *

**Until next time, my fellow Murdochians..._  
_**


End file.
